


I'm Going to Live Twice

by Wiz_is_bored



Category: Black Friday - Team StarKid, Hatchetfield Universe - Team StarKid, The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Animal Death, Descriptions of Corpses, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, Jane is alive, Unethical Experimentation, Whump, You can fight me on that, also a zombie rat, as they should be, but it is important so im tagging it, derogatory use of it/its pronouns, gratuitous amounts of blue shit, infected!emma, infected!paul, infected!paulkins, its my au i get to choose how the hivemind works, mentions of and discussions about suicide, no beta we die like paul and emma in every damn timeline, peip are the antagonists, the major death happens before the fic, theres a zombie dog, very poor understanding of US geography
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26427307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiz_is_bored/pseuds/Wiz_is_bored
Summary: Usually when you die and your body is donated for scientific research that's that. But usually that scientific research doesn't include a pathogen with the power to reanimate, and you don't end up as a zombified lab rat for a questionable branch of the US millitary.It's a stroke of luck that Paul and Emma were given a second shot at being alive, and they're not going to sit around wasting it.
Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 47
Kudos: 56





	1. The Creation of Ben and Kelly

**Author's Note:**

> hi welcome to my love of infected!paulkins and my love of fucking over my favourite characters colliding!
> 
> there will be song lyrics used later in this fic, all songs will be credited at in the notes at the end of the chapter they're in. Some will be adapted a bit to fit the story.

“General McNamara?”

The man looks up from double-checking the documents piled on his desk. “The delivery?”

“Just arrived, Sir,” the agent stood in the doorway to his office informs him. “The Colonel is overseeing the unloading.”

“Good. Tell her I’ll be waiting in the lab.”

The General’s wait is short, though it feels like hours. But eventually the door swings open and four agents enter, carrying two large cardboard boxes between them.

“Xander,” the General addresses one of the men, trying to contain his excitement, “is everything in order?”

“As far as we know, yes. The containers haven’t been opened yet.”

He and Colonel Schaffer set down one of the boxes on the floor beside a table, the other two agents doing the same before being dismissed by the Colonel. For a moment the three stand side by side staring down at the two cardboard boxes. This is it, the next big step in their research.

“Well then,” Schaffer breaks the silence. “Let’s get going. They’re not going to move themselves, are they?”

She and the General move to either end of one box and carefully lift off the lid. Immediately the smell, which was hanging faintly around the containers, is amplified tenfold. It’s the unmistakable smell of death. Together they reach into the box and slowly lift out their newest test subject; the tall, pale, bloodied body of a dead man.

With the cardboard casket kicked under the workbench, the three gather around the corpse on the metal tabletop.

“Bit worse for wear, isn’t it?” The Colonel comments, pulling up its blood-soaked t-shirt to expose the stab wounds littering the body’s torso.

“That won’t matter,” Xander says, “as long as the brain is mostly intact.”

Three pairs of eyes shift to the head. Its eyes are closed, dark brown fringe flopping onto its face, blood staining its lips.

“If it was damaged enough to be an issue then we’d see it,” General McNamara comments. The other two nod, then all three silently move towards the other box.

Xander is the one to scoop the second body out of its container. It’s a woman, small and broken - limbs bent in all the wrong places and blood and bruising everywhere. It feels more like a bag of broken crockery than a human. As the agent stands the corpse's head slips off his arm and dangles limply.

“Oh, that’s a snapped neck,” he comments. Again, once the body is laid on a workbench the three of them check for signs of damage to the brain. Although one cheek has been torn open to expose a glimpse of broken teeth, the skull seems to be the one bone still intact. Its eyes are open and misty.

“What do you think happened to it?” the General asks, eyeing the bloody, splintered bone protruding from its forearm. “Some kind of motor accident?”

“Fell out of a tree and hit every branch on the way down?” Xander suggests.

“Whatever it was is irrelevant,” Colonel Schaffer states, attempting to return her colleagues’ attention to the task at hand. She moves to the end of the table and begins to untie the laces of the corpse’s travel-worn leather hiking boots. “Come on, men. Let’s get these two prepped.”

PEIP was not given any information on the test subjects they would be supplied with ahead of time, and so prepared for average-sized bodies. As a result, the taller one - they've decided to name it Ben - is wearing thin trousers that end a good few inches above its ankles and the shorter - Kelly - is swamped by its hospital gown. But at least the muzzles fit. Those slipping off would be… less than ideal.

Seizing Ben by the wrist, the General gives the one of the chains binding it to the table an experimental tug. Though the body doesn't look particularly strong, heavy duty restraints have been used. Hopefully they won't be entirely necessary.

"I'm going to stick around for the infection," General McNamara announces, placing the arm back on the tabletop. "Care to join me?"

"Of course. You think we have _better_ things to do?" Xander asks.

"Don't ask such stupid questions, John," Schaffer says, shaking her head at the General. He grins as he raises his radio to call the facility’s head biologist.

* * *

Upon waking Paul Matthews is hit by the distinct feeling that being awake is very, very wrong. He shouldn't even be breathing. And there's something metal in his mouth.

Still not fully conscious, he groggily turns his head to the side just in time to see the exposed shard of bone in the arm of the woman lying on the table beside him snap back into place. She gasps in a breath as the haze retreats from her eyes. Paul watches, transfixed, as her torn-up cheek begins to slowly stitch itself back together, leaving smears of blood and some sort of blue residue in the clear plastic muzzle strapped to her face. For some reason he can't bring himself to be alarmed by this. The healing, that is. The muzzle, however, is a cause for unease - not just because it solves the mystery of the metal in his mouth.

The woman appears to be a little more than just uneasy. Almost as soon as she’s awake she begins to struggle, her breathing never calming down after that initial gasp. Rattling chain breaks the silence as she strains against her restraints, slapping Paul round the face with the realisation that she’s shackled to the table. They both are. He tries to sit up but he's stopped by the leather strap across his chest. When he looks over at the woman again she's staring straight at him, her vibrant blue eyes wide and afraid. The expression fills him with dread as he realises that she's right; they _should_ be frightened. They’re chained down and muzzled on metal tables, and they’re breathing when they definitely shouldn’t be.

God, they should be _terrified_.

He tries to get up again and again is stopped by his restraints. _Okay,_ he thinks, since he's unable to say it. _Okay, what do I do? What the fuck do I do?!_ The woman appears to have given up on thrashing, still staring at him. He stares back. The silence returns briefly before he becomes aware of a piano playing quietly in the back of his mind - a slow, cautious melody. But mind-pianos are the least of his concerns at the moment. He's more worried by the woman making a muffled attempt at speech that quickly devolves into her choking on her gag, splattering more of that blue discharge against the inside of the muzzle. Paul shifts a hand towards her, unable to reach out but hoping she'll understand that he _wants_ to help. Maybe she'll take it as a comfort. As the coughing calms she moves her hand towards the edge of the table too, eyes still locked with his, so bright they almost seem to be glowing. The piano in the back of Paul’s mind gets a little louder.

* * *

The General watches through the two-way mirror as the infected bodies get over the initial shock of being alive. It takes them a little while, but eventually Kelly stops writhing and Ben stops trying to get up. The restraints hold firm. The muzzles keep them quiet.

They’re staring at each other when the biologists enter, but the sight of the three people in lab coats sets off their fidgeting again. Both creatures squirm on the tables as the scientists set about taking vital signs and collecting samples of the blue ooze slowly building up in the bodies' various wounds; the healing process is slow, but still considerably faster than any human would heal. A rudimentary assessment of Kelly's previously shattered limbs shows that they've already fused back into what seems to be the correct formation, though the question of whether they're fully repaired would need an x-ray to answer. The biologists conclude their data collection with a blood sample - if you can call the sludge the needles pull from their veins 'blood' - and retreat to another room to begin analysing their findings. The creatures return to staring.

"Well then," the General says. "I'm going to go and introduce myself."

The test subjects stare at him as he opens the door, two pairs of bright blue eyes following him as he moves to stand between the tables. Up close, it's easier to judge their mood. They're frightened and confused, and upon closer inspection he notices blue-tinted tear stains on both of their faces.

"Good morning Ben, Kelly." The names appear to confuse the subjects, but they'll get used to them. "My name is General John McNamara of the United States Military, special unit P-E-I-P. We call it peep." He looks from one to the other of them, both evidently perplexed. "Never heard of us, hm? Well, I daresay you might be able to get a _peep_ at our operations here."

Again, neither seems to understand. Ben manages a muffled "mph?" around the bit of its muzzle. The General pats its leg. "That's a joke, Benny."

The man's attention is diverted by the rattling of chain on the other side of him. Kelly is holding one arm as far above the table as the restraint will allow, shaking the chain to bring attention to it. Scowling, it indicates towards the shackle with its head.

"You're restrained for everyone's safety," he tells it, pushing its arm back down. "Just lie still, girl."

Though it continues to glare at him, it does as it's told.

"Good. Now, I assume that the two of you would appreciate a briefing on the situation-”

He’s interrupted by the creatures making attempts to agree, Kelly’s anger and Ben’s concern clear despite their inability to form words. The General shakes his head. “Here’s a tip: when you're gagged, it's because we don't want you to speak." He gives them each a stern look in turn. They shrink back a little.

"So, the briefing. In simple terms, you two are cadavers, donated to scientific research, that we were given to use in the investigation of a pathogen with many… _interesting_ effects. You have both been infected with that pathogen."

Not giving this time to sink in, the General moves to unbuckle one of Ben's ankle cuffs as he picks up his radio once again. “Helen, come help me move them.”

* * *

Emma’s mind is racing. It's hard to focus on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping over her too-long trousers, the quiet _pat pat pat_ of her bare feet almost drowned out by the heavy footfalls of the woman escorting her, both in time to the faint sound of drums that's been lingering in the back of her mind. She thought she’d be stiff after waking up from what felt like a very long nap, but in actuality moving has never felt so easy. This comes as a surprise, since apparently she's somewhere between dead and alive. Some kind of zombie, chained up and muzzled and being used as a lab rat for some military fuckers. She can't say she's overjoyed by this.

A jerk on the chain attached to her handcuffs brings her to a halt. She's realised by now that trying to fight her way out of shackles is pointless, so she stands still and watches as the Colonel unlocks a heavy metal door. Being shoved through and locked in comes as no surprise.

Ordered to stand still while her cuffs are removed through a hatch in the door, Emma gives her surroundings a brief look-over. The room she finds herself in is tiny, presumably just an entranceway for whatever is through the door to her right.

"You can take off the muzzle now, Kelly. Just leave it on the floor there."

She doesn't need telling twice, scrabbling to release the buckles and throwing the damned thing off, spitting out the unpleasant amount of saliva that built up around the gag. The question of why that saliva is blue can be answered later; right now she's more interested in the red light that flicks on above the door beside her, accompanied by a buzzer.

"Right, in you go."

Emma reaches for the door handle, then hesitates, looking skeptically through the window of the first door. "Where-"

“Go on, girl!”

“Alright, alright, I’m going.”

The door slams closed behind her.

To call the room she ends up in a cell would be generous. It would be more accurate to call it a concrete cuboid that happens to have a door embedded into one side and what Emma assumes is a two-way mirror spanning the entirety of another. A harsh fluorescent light glares down at her.

“So you’re just going to leave me in this fucking box?” she yells to nobody in particular. Nobody in particular replies. “Great," she mutters as she wanders to the corner and slides down the wall to sit on the cold, hard floor. "Great, yeah, this is just fucking perfect."

She tucks her head between her knees. "This is fucking fantastic, isn't it?"

There's no point trying to supress the tears. All of the stress and fear from the lab hits her for a second time now that she has an opportunity to fully process it, and the only coherent thought she can come up with through the sound of drums in her head is the hope that the guy who was chained up next to her is okay. Was it Ben? They called him Ben, but that probably isn't his name. They'd called her Kelly, after all. So either they didn't bother to find out who their guinea pigs are or they simply don't give a shit. Neither would surprise her. In any case, she hopes that not-Ben has been left alone too, and not taken to some other experiment.

She spends awhile just sitting with her thoughts, but eventually she raises her head and peeks out at the probably two-way mirror. It _must_ be two-way, why else would it be there? To trick her into thinking the tiny room is twice as big? No, it’s definitely for observation. Like the glass of a fish tank.

She climbs to her feet, unable to tear her eyes away from her own reflection. Some things are clearly, unignorably different to how she remembers it - namely the outfit. Given the choice, she wouldn’t be standing barefoot in pale blue trousers that spill onto the floor and a gown that looks more like she’s been wrapped in a bedsheet than any kind of clothing. The trousers are an easy fix, just needing the elastic waistband to be folded over a few times. But aside from re-tieing the fastening on her shoulder that’s come loose - whoever put this thing on her should learn to tie a fucking double bow - there's nothing that can be done about the massive gown. The massive, messy gown.

Try as she might, Emma can't ignore the fact that the pattern of blue grid lines criss crossing over the white fabric of the gown is… dirtied in places. Lots of places. Looks to be a mixture of blood and the same blue shit leaking from the small hole in her cheek. For some reason the blue doesn’t really concern her. So she’s covered in blue goo. So what? Nonetheless, the amount of blood makes her a little uneasy. Maybe not as uneasy as it _should_ make her, but still uneasy. She tears her gaze away from the gown and locks eyes with her reflection. Same brown eyes as always. There’s a small amount of comfort in that. Same brown eyes and the same brown hair, though she could have sworn that she wasn’t the one to put it up in a bun. Sure, she does wear it like that sometimes, but it was down, wasn’t it? Yeah, it was down, it must have been, because she remembers it blowing into her face when she was watching the swallows.

Her breath catches in her throat. Oh God.

The swallows.

The drums, previously barely loud enough to notice, return in a cacophony of disordered crashing and banging. She clutches her head as the vertigo hits, slowly easing herself down to her knees before she collapses. Everything is moving very fast and the wind is slamming against her and chilling her to the bone, which makes very little sense in a small concrete cell, but the amount of sense it makes can’t stop it from being terrifying. She rolls onto her side, reasoning that she can’t fall if she’s already on the floor. Unfortunately reasoning doesn’t work either, and she lays there shaking, just waiting to hit something. She’s going to slam into something any moment, she knows it. She's going to hit something and it's going to hurt. The room is still spinning even with her eyes shut as tight as humanly possible. And the drums are so, so loud.

It's incredibly disorienting to open her eyes what feels like hours later, the drums silenced, her gown even stickier now from the ungodly amount of blue slime she's managed to vomit up, and realise that the room is not really spinning and probably never was.

  
The joy of a floor to ceiling mirror is that you can still see your reflection when you're a disheveled mess on the floor. Looking up, she notices with a concerning level of non-concern that her eyes are now a vibrant blue. The realisation is creeping up on her that she's going to _hate_ being kept behind that fucking mirror. If she had any worldly possessions, she'd bet them all that someone on the other side of the glass was watching that entire breakdown. Great. Looks like being a zombie is going to be a not-quite-living hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :)


	2. we didn't consent to necromancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander Lee has a talk with the new test subjects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve updated the tags because I’m more aware of where this story is going now so I’d recommend checking them again. There will probably be more tag updates in the future and I’ll tell you when they happen.

_One, two, three, four, five, turn._

_One, two, three, four, five, turn._

_One, two, three, four, five, turn._

Paul has been pacing his cell since he woke up. He's not sure whether he actually needed the sleep - he didn't feel tired when he laid down - but when the light shut off he attempted to settle on the concrete floor mostly out of habit. The question of if the reanimated dead require sleep is still up for debate.

Being 'alive' still feels incredibly wrong. He nervously hums along to the piano in his head, knocking his fists together to the beat as he ponders this. He died. His life as just a normal guy was cut off rather abruptly at thirty. That doesn't seem entirely fair, but he supposes that death isn't meant to be fair. Nevertheless, it seems extra unfair to him that after that sudden end he's been brought back as nothing more than a test subject. Though he supposes he did sign up for this. Perhaps he should have read the fine print before he agreed to having his corpse studied - but how the fuck was he supposed to know the scientists would be studying necromancy? That's the kind of thing that should be made _very_ obvious, in his opinion. But it’s too late now to say he wants to be cremated. He’s made his bed and now he’s got to lie in it. He can only hope that whatever experiments he ends up used in won’t hurt.

The buzzer almost makes him jump clean out of his skin, and he twirls on his heel to see the red light shining from above the door of the room. He throws an uncertain glance towards the mirror - is someone watching him?

“Am- Am I supposed to go through?”

No response. He’ll try the handle, he decides. If it’s unlocked he’ll assume he’s meant to be leaving the cell.

It’s unlocked. He leaves the cell.

"Good morning, Ben," the General calls through the door. Paul hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this.

"Good morning to you too, General McNamara, but, um... I think that there's been some sort of paperwork or IT error,” he explains. “My name's Paul Matthews."

McNamara shakes his head. "There's no error, boy. Your name is Ben."

"But-"

"And d'you know why I _know_ your name's Ben?"

Paul hesitates, not wanting to drop the issue but recognising a pointless argument. Perhaps this will help him figure out how the error happened. "No,” he says eventually. “I don't."

"I know your name's Ben because I was the one who named you."

The reanimated man can’t deny the chill that runs down his spine then, a million confused thoughts chasing each other through his mind. “Because you didn’t know…?” It’s a lame excuse, grasping at straws for a reasonable explanation, hoping that one exists.

“Because you didn’t have one. Paul Matthews, you said?”

“Yes.”

The General looks him dead in the eyes then, and he feels a lot smaller than he is. “Paul Matthews is gone, boy. And if I catch you using a dead man’s name again, well. There will be… _consequences.”_

Paul steps back from the door, suddenly aware of just how vulnerable he is - a lab rat, caged and defenceless and uncared for. Who’s to say the General won’t hurt him? Who’s to say how bad his transgression will have to be before he’s punished? “I… I understand,” he says quietly, before tacking a “Sir,” onto the end for good measure.

“Good boy.” A folded garment is pushed through the hatch. “Now get yourself out of that dirty shirt.”

Paul puts his back to the window to pull off his hospital gown. Considering the splotches of red and blue on the fabric, he's nervous to look down at the state of his chest. But he can't put it off forever.

To his great surprise, after Paul wipes away the small smears of blood and blue discharge with his dirty gown his skin appears as unbroken as the day he was born. Which makes very little sense, given the amount of blood there was on his gown.

Oh, and the fact that he was stabbed.

He tentatively pokes at one of the areas that he _knows_ shouldn't be intact, trying to keep his breathing steady. Okay, so maybe he was stabbed, and maybe he died, but he's fine now, right? He’s fine. There’s no need to panic, he’s _fine._ He pulls the clean gown over himself and begins to tie it, trying to think about anything else. But the piano in his mind is back, louder now, and with it it brings the feeling - or maybe just a memory - of something warm soaking his shirt and running down his chest. As he secures his sleeves he attempts to disregard the tingling in his legs, but the piano seems to have synced up with the pins and needles, refusing to let him ignore them. Breathing is starting to get harder, although he’s not sure if he really needs oxygen anymore. Faint pains accompany every inhale. The air appears to be coming and going without any impact. He’s not taking it in.

The General’s shouting seems incredibly far away as his legs buckle.

* * *

“Ben! Ben, what's happened?”

The creature remains whimpering in the ground. This isn’t entirely unexpected after Kelly’s episode the day before; at first they had feared that something had gone wrong, and they were going to lose the girl as soon as they’d got it, but eventually it got back on its feet. Presumably the same will happen with Ben. But McNamara doesn’t have time to wait for it to get up _eventually._ He’s on a schedule. Sighing, he pulls his PPE from various pockets and belt clips - mask, safety glasses, face shield, thick gloves - and swipes his access card across the door handle.

“Hey, Benny,” he calls. No response. He crouches down beside the test subject, keeping his distance as it lays gasping, grasping at its chest. It appears to be hyperventilating - odd behaviour for a creature that doesn't require air.

“Stop it, Ben,” he orders, not sure if he’s being heard. “You don’t need oxygen. You don’t need to breathe. Just try to hold it.” He’s not sure if this advice will help, but it’s worth a try. So he keeps repeating it until the creature does as he says.

“Better?”

Ben shuts its eyes and covers its nose and mouth with one hand. Taking this to mean his advice is helping, the General hauls it into a sitting position to finish fastening the gown - a task made difficult by the protective gloves. As he works on the ties the creature slowly lowers its hand, eyes still shut, not breathing.

“Alright, that’s your gown on.”

Bright blue eyes hesitantly open. The General stands.

“Thank you, I… I’m sorry I-”

“Quiet, Ben.”

It shuffles back a little, staring up at him. “Sorry,” it whispers. “Sir.”

“Skittish boy, aren’t you?” the General jibes as he unhooks the muzzle from his belt and holds it out to the reanimated body. It hesitates before taking it, and takes a deep, unnecessary breath before speaking.

“Is this… is this really necessary?”

“I _told_ you to stay quiet. Put your muzzle on.”

“But-”

“Don’t make me tell you again. Muzzle, now.”

He watches the creature slowly strap on the device and ruffles its hair once it’s done. “Wasn’t that hard, was it? Now, on your feet, boy. You’ve got places to be.”

* * *

John radios his colleague perhaps two minutes late, apologising for the delay. He tells Xander that it’s due to Ben having an ‘episode’ - “similar to Kelly’s yesterday.” Xander assures him that he’ll investigate.

As one of PIEP's best field agents - and one that neither Ben nor Kelly have a personal reason to distrust - Xander Lee has been selected as the one to investigate some of the mental effects of the pathogen. Although he's a little nervous about trying to converse with the undead, he can't deny that he's excited. He's not too bothered about the fact that this isn't exactly his area of expertise. He's a people person. The creatures are still sort of people, right?

It's a short walk down to the interrogation rooms. Behind the two-way mirror, Ben sits with its wrists chained to the table, gently knocking its fists together and throwing occasional nervous glances at the door. The usual muzzle has been replaced with one that lacks the metal bars that gag the boy, but boasts much securer buckles in case it manages to get its hands behind its head.

Its bright blue eyes follow the man as he enters the room, wide and frightened.

"Morning, Benny," the agent says as he sits down, "can I call you Benny?"

"I- the General already does, so…"

"Great." He nods towards its fists, still tapping together, rattling the thin chains. “Nervous?”

“Well, yes. I don’t think you can blame me for being rather confused and concerned by all this.”

“It’s alright, Benny, I understand. My name is Xander, we’re just going to talk, ok?”

“Okay…”

“Great.”

For a while the agent just lets the boy talk, occasionally prompting it with questions but mostly allowing it to ramble out its thoughts; how it knows it signed up for this but didn't realize what it was getting into, how being alive feels incredibly wrong, how its 'episode' was a flashback to the stabbing that sent it here in the first place.

"And there's this music in my head."

Xander sits up a little straighter. "Music?"

"Yeah. Piano. And it's not like I have something stuck in my head, I've never heard this before."

"What does it sound like?"

Immediately the creature begins to sing, the wordless melody lining up perfectly with the beat of its tapping fists. There’s no hesitation, no mistakes. Inhuman perfection in its performance. Xander sits still for awhile, letting the discreet microphone on his jacket pick up the song with as little interference as possible.

"You've got a good voice there, Benny," he says eventually. The creature looks confused.

"I... I just… It's just really clear in my head, I guess."

"The piano?"

"Yeah."

"Does it bother you?"

"Not really. It's like… It's like it's _meant_ to be there." It seems unsure, as if it's only now realising that a piano in its head isn't quite normal.

"Do you like musicals, Benny?"

Its brow furrows. "No. They make me very uncomfortable, actually. Why do you ask?"

"Just a curiosity," Xander lies. There’s certain things that Benny doesn’t need to know.

"Okay…"

"And what about Kelly?"

"Huh?"

"Kelly. The other test subject. What do you think of her?"

Looking down at its hands, it speaks slowly: "Well, I've never spoken to her, so I'm not really sure. But still, it's good to know I'm not completely alone in this.” It looks up. “And, well, there's something about her eyes…"

"Her eyes?"

"Yeah. Yesterday, when we were chained down next to each other, I looked her in the eyes and I swear they were glowing. And the piano got louder."

"The piano got louder specifically when you looked her in the eyes?"

It nods. "It happened a few times. I was looking at her when I noticed the piano in the first place. Is that a good thing? I think it's a good thing. It _feels_ like a good thing."

"If that's how you feel about it, then I'd say it's good," Xander reassures it. Truth be told, he's not entirely sure wether it's good or bad. Either way it's a sign that Benny and Kelly are linked, even without the presence of a central brain; the meteor was thoroughly destroyed more than a year ago. Benny doesn't need to know that. It's confidential information and besides, there's no need to agitate the boy. The creature gives him an uneasy smile through its muzzle. Its fists are still tapping, but Xander has managed to tune out the sound of the chains.

"Alright then, Benny, one last question."

"Okay."

"Have you been feeling any more… _Aggressive_ than you would normally?

Its brow furrows. "No? I told you, I'm just confused and concerned. Why do you ask?"

"Kelly," Xander lies. "The Colonel has been having trouble handling her, we just wanted to know if it's an issue with both of you."

"She's just scared," Benny says. "I'm sure she is… She was scared yesterday. We both were."

"Well, I'll be sure to tell the Colonel that. But that's it for today, Benny. Do you have any questions?"

It stares down at its fists for a moment. “How long… How long was I dead for?”

“We don’t have any information on you, so we don’t know. But I can give you today’s date.”

“Yes, please.”

Xander double-checks his digital watch. “It’s January 24th, 2018.”

"Only a few weeks then... Do you know how long they'll be experimenting with us for?"

"It's too early to tell, unfortunately."

"Years?"

"All estimates are classified, sorry." In truth, there are no estimates. But for now, Benny can hope that this will end eventually.

"Okay. Okay, one more question. Are… Are they going to hurt us, Xander?"

It stares at him, and for a moment he sees the young man that Benny used to be, silently pleading for the agent to tell him he'll be okay. But then Xander blinks, and again it’s simply a reanimated corpse with an inhuman glint in its eye.

"We'll do all we can to prevent any unnecessary suffering," he says, "but we can't guarantee anything.”

The colour drains from the creature’s face. “Oh… Okay, I… Okay. Okay.” There’s fear in its eyes. Xander considers reminding it that it _did_ consent to this, technically, but reconsiders.

“You’ll be alright, Benny. I’ll be here for you to talk to.”

Tears well in the creature’s eyes. “I’m scared,” the corpse whispers.

“Benny, look at me.” It does as it’s told. Xander puts a hand on its arm. “You may be hurt, but when all’s said and done you’re going to be okay. I promise,” he lies. “Okay?”

Wide, glowing blue eyes stare back at him.

“Okay.” 

* * *

Benny goes quietly when the General comes to pick it up. Kelly, on the other hand, squirms and digs in its heels and makes indistinct angry noises through its gag as the Colonel brings it into the room and cuffs it to the table. As soon as the bit is out of its mouth and the new muzzle is in place it gives Schaffer a curt “fuck you,” and drops its head onto the tabletop, tugging at the buckles of the mask.

“Little shit,” Helen mutters as she shuts the door behind her.

“It’s been difficult?”

“That’s one way of putting it. The girl’s why I was late - wouldn’t tie its hair, wouldn’t put on its muzzle, wouldn’t move its fucking feet. Stubborn.”

“Well, according to Benny, it’s just scared,” Xander says with a grin, sticking his hands into his pockets. She rolls her eyes.

"Seems bloody pissed off to me. Good luck with it."

For a few minutes Xander leaves the girl alone in the room, waiting for it to settle. Eventually it gives up on the muzzle straps and gets to its feet, throwing its weight against the chains in a futile attempt to free itself. It even attempts bracing one foot against the edge of the tabletop for extra leverage. Only when it stops struggling, standing with one bare foot tapping a steady beat against the floor, does Xander enter the room. It glares as he walks over to the desk.

"Good morning, Kelly, I-"

"Emma."

He's taken a little off guard by its interruption. "I'm not fucking called Kelly," it continues. "It's Emma Perkins."

The agent has to pause while he figures out how to respond. "Well, we want to maintain a certain degree of disconnect between the investigation and its donors," he eventually explains

"With all due respect, I don't give a shit about your investigation. And for fuck's sake, why did it have to be _Kelly?"_

"In my defence, that was the Colonel's idea.” The man raises his hands in surrender. _“I_ wanted to call you Lauren. I was outvoted. But anyway, Kelly-"

"Emma!"

Xander considers the creature for a moment. "Alright, girl. Let's make a deal, eh? If, for the duration of this chat, I call you Emma, will you talk to me? I get the impression that you don't plan on being particularly compliant.”

It eyes him suspiciously. “...Depends on what you want to talk about,” it says cautiously. “But for the most part, stop calling me ‘girl’ too and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Okay. Well, Emma, would you like to take a seat?”

It flops into the chair, still glaring, still tapping its foot. “So who are you?”

“Xander Lee. We’re just going to talk, Okay?”

“Sure.”

It quickly becomes apparent that Kelly is feeling a lot like Benny; being alive is wrong, its breakdown was a flashback, there’s music in its head. Drums this time, and when asked to demonstrate it simply indicates with its head to the foot still tapping on the floor. Apparently this one is indifferent to musicals.

“And what about Benny?”

It cocks its head to the side. “You mean Ben? That’s what you’re calling the other lab rat, right?”

There’s clear resentment in its words. The agent ignores this. “The other test subject, yes.”

“Yeah, I’m going to call him Not-Ben. Since, you know, his name _isn’t fucking Ben._ Anyway, I know literally nothing about him because we were fucking gagged when we met. But I guess it’s great to know someone else is going through the same complete bullshit that I am. Hope you haven’t fucked with him any more than you have me.”

It glares at him, chained hands curled into fists, its foot tapping faster.

“Alright, Emma, I think we need to address the elephant in the room here.”

It just keeps glaring.

“You’re obviously not comfortable with being part of this research.”

“No shit. I didn’t fucking sign up for this.”

Xander pauses, a chill running down his spine. Has something gone wrong? And what the fuck are they going to do if it has? “We were told that the cadavers we were supplied with were donated with consent,” he says slowly. Kelly huffs.

“Yeah, okay, _technically_ I _did_ sign up for this,” it admits. Xander only just manages to hold in a sigh of relief. “But I was under the impression that once I died I was going to stay dead. You know, I get $200 and you get to fuck around with my corpse once I’m done with it. I didn’t think I’d get dragged into this - you should really tell people before you start raising them from the dead.”

“There was no way to inform potential subjects ahead of time; you didn’t consent to this investigation specifically. However, we did ensure that the contract covered us. Pardon me for putting it so bluntly, but I suspect that you were sent to us because you were too… _mangled_ to be of use to any other studies.”

Its nose wrinkles. “Thanks for that image. Anyway, I’m guessing that since I’m legally dead this technically isn’t a human rights violation?”

He nods. “You’re a smart one.”

“Don’t patronise me. You’ve got to realise that this is ethically questionable, at least? I mean, the fact that you have me fucking muzzled and chained up makes it pretty obvious that you don’t give a shit wether we actually want to be here. That’s fucked, and it _would_ be false imprisonment if it wasn’t for your little ‘technically dead’ loophole.”

“The ethics of the situation have been thoroughly thought through and debated, Emma,” the agent says as gently as he can. “Measures will be put in place to minimise any unnecessary suffering for you or Benny.”

As he talks the fight leaves the creature’s eyes, replaced by the fear that it was hiding. “I don’t care,” it says quickly. “I… I want out.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

It pulls its hands closer to its body, until the chain catches. The already small girl almost seems to shrink a little. “Thought so,” it whispers.

“I’m-”

“Fuck off.”

Kelly is shaking, staring down at its hands.

“Emma, you’re going to be okay.”

“I told you not to fucking patronise me, I know I’m just a guinea pig now.” It rests its head on its arms, shaking with what Xander can only assume are tears. He tries to place a reassuring hand on its shoulder but it shoves him away.

“Nothing you say is going to make me feel better, okay? Just get this stupid interrogation over with.”

For a few moments he just looks down at the miserable girl. “I think that’s enough for today, actually. Do you have any questions?”

A pair of bright blue eyes appears above its arm. “You ever going to let us go?”

“All plans for the course of the study are classified, unfortunately.”

“So thats’s a no,” Kelly correctly assumes.

“That’s a maybe,” Xander lies.

It snorts, obviously not believing him. He decides no to push the issue.

“Anything else you want to ask?”

It thinks for a moment, then raises its head. “Okay, less of a question, more of a favour, but since I’m fucking stuck here… do you think you could get me some smaller clothes?”

Its voice breaks a little as it asks. Xander considers the creature, the hospital gown hanging off its shoulders, a dejected look on its face. “I’ll see what can be done,” he assures it, knowing full well that nothing will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning in advance: I like to respond to comments but am also terrible at it so barely comprehensible replies weeks after comments are made is a thing that happens


	3. an Attempt at communicating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> conversation is an art form and someone needs to give these guys some fucking crayons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have edited the tags once more! Nothing added, i just removed the hive king tag because i realised that after revising my plan a few times that aspect kinda faded out of existence and i couldn't fit it back in. also i no longer apologise for peip being the antagonists, they deserve it actually. And this has been in the tags for a while but I want to make it doubly clear that the ‘major character death’ tag is in reference to paul and emma being dead from the start. I’m not killing anyone else off but those two deaths are talked about and described a few times after the fact so i used that tag to be safe.

Once again, Emma frequently comes close to tripping as she's walked down the corridor; after her misbehaviour the Colonel decided it was necessary to chain her ankles together. Now she can barely move more than a shuffle. So she doesn't. She refuses to move. If they insist on keeping her prisoner, she’s going to make herself as frustrating to keep as possible. Eventually Colonel Schaffer appears to get tired of shoving her forward only to have to grab her before she falls.

"Come on," she commands, grabbing her by the side of the muzzle strap that loops around the back of her neck. She's practically dragged alongside the woman, stumbling every other step and tugging furiously against her captor’s grip.

Before long she’s back in the fucking lab from yesterday. As soon as the door opens she attempts to dig in her heels, but Schaffer quickly hauls her in and forces her head down onto the table. “Stay still,” she commands as Emma squirms in her grip. Since she can't get a word out in protest she settles for indistinct angry yelling through her gag. The Colonel only puts more pressure on her head, the muzzle pressing against her cheek, the straps digging into her face, the metal bit pulling at the corner of her mouth. She still struggles, but silently now.

Stuck staring at a wall, Emma can't turn to look at the person who approaches them.

"I'm waiting for it to give up wriggling," she hears Schaffer explain. "Then I'll get it on the table for you."

Out of pure spite, Emma gives a particularly aggressive jerk of her head in the woman's grip.

"Actually," another voice replies, "we want to put it on the scale first. We need its weight for dosage calculations.”

The woman is pulled back upright and led across the room, but she doesn't struggle so much this time, too busy eavesdropping.

"You're drugging them, then?" Schaffer asks.

"Experimenting with anaesthetics. Nothing's worked on Ben so far."

Emma tries to turn and catch a glimpse of Not-Ben - she’d been too wrapped up in fighting to notice him when they came in - but the Colonel forces her head forward and pushes her onto the scale.

"Nothing worked on the rats either, did it?"

"No. But we wanted to be sure."

When they turn back towards the tables Emma starts resisting again. She’d rather _not_ have drugs tested on her, thanks. But they drag her to the table anyway. It’s clear now that waiting for her to calm down will take far too long.

* * *

Paul watches the woman struggle in the Colonel’s grip. He stands by what he told Xander - the problem isn’t her being aggressive. She’s scared. He’s not sure how he knows this, since she _looks_ pretty angry; she’s clearly _furious_ on the surface. But it’s fear that’s really driving her, he’s certain of it. The biologist grabs her legs and the two of them haul the test subject onto the table, another approaching to help shackle her. Despite her putting up quite a fight, they soon have her chained down and the Colonel takes her leave. After an IV line has been put in her arm and she’s tried and failed to shake it loose, she finally lies flat and looks over at him with her bright blue eyes.

Trying to steady her breathing, Emma focuses her attention on the man beside her. There’s a tube in his arm too. He’s already staring anxiously at her when she looks his way; it’s a small but welcome comfort to know that someone’s concerned for her. Like before, the drums get a little louder in the back of her mind when they lock eyes. He raises his arm and makes what she can only assume is an attempt at a wave. But before she can respond, someone takes a hold of her arm - the arm with the line in it. Though her entire body tenses she refuses to look. Instead she returns Not-Ben’s gesture. He smiles. At least, she’s pretty sure he does. It’s hard to tell through the muzzle and the bit.

Struggling for an idea for how to continue the ‘conversation’, Paul laments the fact that he never learnt morse code while he was alive the first time. Though, he supposes that would only help if the woman happened to know it too. Same for ASL. As he searches for something to help the situation, his eyes settle on the woman’s feet. He noticed, when they were lifting her onto the table, that her ankles were chained together. The restraint hasn’t been removed. Catching her eye once again, he nods towards it, hoping his question comes across in his expression. _Why did they chain your feet?_ She follows the gesture with her eyes - those impossibly bright blue eyes - and spends a moment looking down. Maybe figuring out what he’s asking, maybe figuring out how to respond.

It’s rather difficult, Emma is finding, to say ‘I’ve resolved to be a little shit and they’re making futile attempts to stop me’ with a chunk of metal in your mouth and very limited mobility. Eventually she settles on kicking the chain around a bit, flashing Not-Ben a thumbs-up and what she hopes is a mischievous look. After a moment of thought he seems to get the message, what she thinks is a nervous laugh sounding from him as he returns the thumbs-up. Their eyes meet again. And although the sound of drums is still loud in her head, if Emma focuses hard enough she can just pick up the gentle tones of a piano alongside them. _His piano,_ her brain informs her, though she's not quite sure why she's so certain of that.

The faint drums are definitely something new. _Her_ faint drums. His fingers tap against the metal tabletop to the beat. She watches for a moment, soon replying with the rhythm of his piano - they're hearing each other's music. He's not quite sure what that means, but if the dopamine rush is anything to go off then it's a good thing. He can't help grinning through the muzzle. She smiles back.

* * *

"Ben."

The drums fade a little as Paul looks away from his companion to face the biologist standing over him, but he feels the beat pick up. He’d almost forgotten that they’re in the middle of drug trials, given how ineffective the anesthetics have been and his focus on the woman chained to the table beside him. But of course reality had to make itself known sooner or later.

“I’m going to take your muzzle off so we can trial anesthetic gasses,” the man says through his mask and face shield. “Don’t fidget, stay quiet.”

He can hear his companion’s chains rattling beside him as she fidgets, matching the pace of her quickening drums. He gives a small, stiff nod, then lifts his head slightly to expose the buckles. As the straps are removed he wonders whether he should try to say something to the woman. Sure, they told him to stay quiet, but this is a chance he doesn’t know when or if he’ll get again. His first instinct is just a ‘hello’, but that won’t tell her anything more than his little wave already has. His name, he quickly decides. He’ll tell her his name.

The bit leaves his mouth, but before he can get a word out he’s hit with a sudden thought.

_Bite._

The reanimated man is taken off guard. He doesn't want to bite the biologist, that would get him nowhere.

_Bite him._

He's not going to bite.

_It would be so easy. Bite him._

And then there's a new bit in his mouth and the moment passes. He barely notices the mask being fitted over his face, too lost in his thoughts. It's probably just because Xander asked about him feeling aggressive. The questioning got in his head, that's all. Just a stupid subconcious thought that threw him off speaking. He’ll have to try telling the woman his name when they take the mask back off.

Her chains are still rattling on the table beside him. When he looks over at her again her eyes are wide and the beat of her drums is almost frantic, close to falling out of time with the piano. She’s still scared, but it’s a different kind now. She’s scared for _him._ Despite the situation, he’s almost glad; his companion _cares_ about him. He gives her a thumbs-up and an attempt at a smile, but it does little to convince her he’s okay. It does little to convince him either. He’s worried. Not about what will happen if the anesthetic _does_ work. No, he’s worried about what will happen if it _doesn’t._

_We'll do all we can to prevent any unnecessary suffering,_ Xander told him, _but we can't guarantee anything._ This - the anesthetic that doesn’t seem to be working in the slightest - might be ‘all they can do’. And if it continues to have no effect, then there’s nothing stopping anyone here from hurting them. In short, if these drug tests fail then he and the woman beside him are fucked.

Of course they fail.

He’s not sure whether his companion has come to the same conclusion as he has, but regardless she stares at him with wide, worried eyes as the man removes the mask from Paul’s face. He gives her a thumbs-up, dragging in a deep breath in a futile attempt to disperse the anxiety tightening his chest. He’s going to do it this time. He’s going to tell her his name. The gag is removed and the immediate thought of attacking makes itself clear again, but he pushes it down and locks eyes with the woman.

“Paul!” he blurts out, “I’m Paul!”

It’s barely a moment of spoken conversation before he’s muzzled and sternly told to stay quiet, but the surprise in her eyes and massive grin around her bit are worth it. She gives him a thumbs-up, and he returns it, and the music in their heads has never sounded better.

Paul never thought that telling someone his name would give him such a thrill; he’s still giddy when the General comes to lead him away. She knows his name. And she was so happy to know it too. But he still doesn’t know hers, he reminds himself. He still doesn’t have a name to put to her face, and all he has to go off is that it isn’t Kelly. Well, unless by some bizarre coincidence she was given the same name twice.

He looks over his shoulder on his way out of the door, meeting her eyes again. Her impossibly bright blue eyes.

Blue. It’ll have to do for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit shorter because im trying to keep chapters shorter to avoid disappearing into the void for months at a time, as i am prone to do.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	4. Shit gets Fucked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry not sorry it's time for them to suffer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for abuse. This is when things get violent. Also when I start using song lyrics

_ Spit.  _ That's the first thought to enter Emma's head when Schaeffer takes off her muzzle.  _ Spit at her.  _ It's a tempting idea, but it would probably do more harm than good. It seems like she’s in trouble already.

"Why are you acting like this, Kelly?"

The question drags her out of her thoughts. "I told Xander this morning," she says, glaring at the woman standing on the other side of the table. "I want out. And my name is Emma Perkins."

"And I expect he told you that it's too late to revoke your consent,  _ Kelly." _

"Well, just because you find that life's not fair, it doesn't mean that you just have to grin and bear it."

Emma blinks. She's not quite sure where that came from. The thought was already in her head, sure, but that was phrased a lot more eloquently than she was planning. Her foot starts to tap on the cold floor again. The drums are getting louder.

“If you always take it on the chin and wear it, nothing will change.”

It’s hard to ignore the fact that she said that in time to her tapping foot. Schaffer is staring at her, brows furrowed. The expression seems dangerous. Emma bites her tongue, not quite sure where the line is with the Colonel, or what happens when she crosses it. She’s not too eager to find out.

“So, you’re saying you’re going to be disruptive to the investigation until we  _ allow  _ you to revoke your consent?”

Willing herself to stay silent, she breaks eye contact and shrugs. Saliva is pooling in her mouth, but it’s thicker than it should be. The sludge is sweet. Incredibly sweet, but just shy of being sickly. She stares down at her hands, chained to the desk.  _ Spit at her, it would be so easy. _

“Answer the question, Kelly.”

She doesn’t  _ mean  _ to sing, the words just spill out that way. Although the song is unexpected it’s not unwelcome; the absolute  _ catharsis  _ of the music is overwhelming.

_ “Even if you're little, you can do a lot, you _

_ Mustn't let a little thing like 'little' stop you _

_ If you sit around and let them get on top, you _

_ might as well be saying _

_ You think that it's okay _

_ And that's not right.” _

The reanimated woman grins up at Schaffer, euphoria washing away any thoughts of danger. Blue spittle oozes down her chin. 

The Colonel seems almost…  _ alarmed _ by the music. Within a few seconds she’s forcing a muzzle back over her face, but the apparent moment of panic is over as soon as it began.

“Sorry, Kelly,” she says as she pulls off her protective gloves, “but being uncooperative isn’t going to get us to remove you from the study; you’re in too deep now. And you need to start answering to your name.”

Emma, despite the metal in her mouth, makes an attempt at telling her exactly what her name is. Schaffer shakes her head. “Whether you like it or not you’re Kelly now. Emma Perkins is dead, girl. Best you forget her name."

* * *

For the second time in so many hours, Xander takes a seat opposite a reanimated body. Benny, as he requested. He would be lying if he claimed he felt no guilt choosing between the two like this, but the decision was obvious. Ben will most likely comply with the experiment. Kelly definitely would not. Not that he thinks Kelly  _ deserves  _ what it’ll get, if it comes to that. God, no. But whether it knows it or not, the girl’s made its bed and it’s going to have to lie in it.

“Hello again, Benny.”

Its fists are tapping again. “Hello.”

“Still nervous?”

It nods. “The anesthetic trials didn’t work. You can’t numb us, that means we’re going to get hurt, doesn’t it?”

“It’s…  _ unfortunate.”  _ Xander admits, dodging the question. “But don’t worry about that now. This test doesn’t require any anesthetic.”

Just as the agent hoped, the mention of the test distracts the boy. The panic in its eyes doesn’t fade, but it’s redirected.

“Test?”

“Yes. I can’t tell you what we’re testing for in case that affects the results, but it’s going to be very simple.”

“No chance of being hurt?”

Xander nods. “No chance of you being hurt.”

Benny takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay then, that’s… Okay.”

* * *

Leaning back in her chair and drumming her fingers on the table, Emma occasionally glances over at the Colonel standing in the corner. She’s tried to lay her head on her arms, but there’s no way to do it without her muzzle shifting so that the gag sits even more uncomfortably in her mouth. It’s one of the ones with the buckles you can’t just open with your hands, she’s checked. It’s been strapped on tight, too. Schaffer gives her a dirty look whenever she works her finger under one of the straps to rub at her head but she just glares back. She won’t be surprised if she has a red line down her forehead when the damn thing is taken off.

Both women look up when the door opens and the General walks in. Taking a seat opposite Emma, he opens a laptop and places a deck of cards on the table. The Colonel sits down beside him. Neither says a word - no explanation, not even a brief one. Schaffer flips over the top card and places it in front of Emma. McNamara types something into the laptop. They sit in silence.

The card shows a red triangle. Emma looks from it to the people sitting opposite her. The fuck is that supposed to mean?

* * *

“Uh… Blue circle?”

Xander tries to keep his expression neutral as he notes down Benny’s choice and picks up the spread of five cards. He’ll make it a bit easier this time, he decides, laying two cards in front of it.

“Okay… Um… Red cross.”

It looks up with an expression that makes it incredibly clear that it has no clue what it’s supposed to be doing. The agent checks his screen again, though he already knows what it says. They’re showing Kelly a green square. He logs the guess in. Because that’s clearly what it is; just a guess. Out of 25 choices Benny has got seven right, nowhere near enough to say it has any idea what Kelly is seeing. Clearly the shapes are too specific for their connection.

**‘Benny definitely isn’t getting it,’** he messages to John. ‘ **I’d advise moving on to Stage 2.’**

**‘Roger that.’**

Stage two means vaguer concepts; in the other room the General is going to start playing an extract of a science-fiction audiobook and tell Kelly to listen. Xander places 3 sheets of paper on the desk.

“Same deal as before, Benny, just pick one.”

The creature looks from the images of castles and medieval dress, to the circuit boards and neon lights, to the jungles and tigers. It squints.

“The… That one.” It points to the pictures of castles. “The medieval one.”

Unfortunately for Kelly, the second stage goes just as badly as the first. The girl listens to ten extracts. Benny chooses desert scenes for  _ Holes _ and battles and stallions for  _ War Horse, _ but the rest are wildly incorrect. After it points to a collection of beach imagery while Kelly is listening to  _ the Snowman,  _ Xander concedes that they have to move on.

**‘Stage 3,’** he messages simply.   
**‘Rodger.’**

Ben and Kelly  _ definitely  _ have a connection. Clearly a weak one, but he  _ knows  _ it’s there. Surely this will force it to show itself.

* * *

In the other interrogation room, John and Helen exchange uncomfortable looks. Truth be told, all three PEIP members were hoping that it wouldn’t come to this.

“I’ll do it,” the General eventually volunteers, standing up and heading to the door. Kelly’s deep brown eyes watch him skeptically as he reaches into the bag the laptop was in, and light up bright blue when he pulls out a riding crop.

“Now, Kelly, I-”

He doesn’t get to finish his explanation - when he begins to approach her the girl jumps to its feet and kicks the chair at him in a desperate attempt to keep him away. It only bounces harmlessly off him and clatters to the ground on its side. The creature grunts out something that sounds a lot like a muffled ‘shit’.

Before Kelly can make another attempt at defence, Schaffer grabs its muzzle straps from behind, kicking its knees out from under it as she shoves its head down onto the desk. Kelly falls hard, but is squirming and yelling almost immediately.

“Thanks, Helen.”

The Colonel doesn’t respond, focusing on getting a good grip on the straps despite the girl clawing at her fingers. Turning the laptop around, McNamara checks whether Xander has reported any reaction from Ben. They’ve already set off the girl’s fight or flight, maybe that was enough. But, no.

Laying the crop on the desktop, the General unties the first few tags of the creature’s gown to expose its shoulders.

“Stay still, Kelly.”

It doesn’t stop struggling, but the Colonel has it still enough. “This won’t last long,” she tries to reassure the girl, but it does nothing to calm it.

It doesn’t stop squirming when he starts to beat it.

* * *

“Benny? Are you okay?”

Paul’s fists are tapping faster than normal, eyes incredibly bright and nervously flicking around the room. The piano is loud again.

“I just… I feel a little uneasy all of a sudden.” He shuts his eyes, trying to focus on the music. “I think I’m picking up Blue’s drums again.”

When he opens his eyes he’s treated to a questioning look from Xander.

“Blue, she- the other test subject,” he tries to explain. “I didn’t want to call her Kelly, so…”

The agent takes his hands off the laptop’s keyboard; apparently this revelation is more important than the notes he was writing up. “You’ve been hearing her drums?”

“It only started today,” he quickly clarifies, not wanting to be accused of keeping secrets. “In the lab. It’s only very, very faint at the moment.”

Shutting his eyes again and bowing his head, he tries to follow the beat of the drums. It’s less organised than before, barely keeping a coherent rhythm. But maybe he’s only hearing some of it. That would make sense; they get louder when he looks at her, and right now he has no idea where she is.

“I think she’s scared,” he states, but he’s much less certain of it than he was in the lab.

“Well, you said it yourself, she’s been scared quite a lot.”

“Maybe whatever connection we have is getting stronger?” he suggests. The thought brings him a sliver of hope.

“It seems that way.”

As the agent returns to typing up notes, Paul stares down at his tapping fists, at the chain that rattles loudly as he moves. If only he was free, free to just get up and go find Blue and tell her - actually tell her, out loud, with words - that she’s going to be okay. If only he could say that and have it be the truth.

* * *

Squirming is pointless, and Emma eventually has to admit that. Her energy is better spent on trying to distract herself from the awful burning pain in her shoulders. She clamps her teeth down on the metal bit despite the ache it creates in her jaw. She twists her fingers into her hair and balls them into fists, tugging on her scalp. She repeats to herself over and over that she’s felt pain worse than this. No matter how much the beating hurts, she’s been through worse. She can deal with this. Death hurt far, far more. Death had her bloody and broken. She can deal with being hit. She should be able to take it. But the drums have risen to a cacophony again and her useless breath is quick and shallow. She’s not sure whether she’s bleeding, or even if she  _ can _ bleed. She just knows that it fucking  _ hurts. _

In desperation, she finds herself pushing aside her own deafening drums and searching for the comforting melody of Paul’s piano. Despite not really knowing the man, there’s something reassuring in the uncertain smiles that he gives her. He’s the only person here who seems to care about her, and the only person here she has to care about. They’re in this shit together.

When she finds the quiet tones of the piano in the back of her mind they’re more rushed than before, just about keeping time with her own percussion. She holds onto that piano. Right now, as she kneels crying into the tabletop, it's all she has.

Eventually they stop the beating. She's still held down as the General re-ties the tags on the back of her gown, and it’s with some difficulty that she slowly lets go of her hair and attempts to wipe at her eyes. That near-sickly sweet taste is filling her mouth again; as she takes deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself she almost chokes on the slime. When the muzzle is unlocked she manages to spit most of it onto the table, but she can’t get a word out before she’s gagged once again. The pain is fading much faster than she expected, and she lost her grip on the piano as soon as she loosened it. McNamara drags her to her feet.

By the time the Colonel has walked her back to her cell, the pain and panic have faded away to leave only resentment. She hurls her muzzle at the door’s window when she’s told to take it off.

“What the  _ fuck  _ was that for?” she demands. Schaffer begins to answer, but the infuriated lab rat won’t let her. “You going to tell me that was fucking ‘neccesary suffering’? Fuck you.”

_ Spit.  _ She’s too mad to question the thought. Her mouth is still full of that sweet taste. The slime hits the window with a satisfying - if a little louder than expected -  _ thump. _

“Kelly-”

She doesn’t stick around to hear whatever bullshit Colonel Schaeffer is about to say. Yanking the door open, she makes a point to flip her off before storming into the cell and slamming the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics used from Naughty, from Matilda the musical
> 
> Me? Posting before midnight (in my timezone)? Unheard of.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	5. remember to give your zombies regular exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the lab rats get competitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a lighter chapter (especially compared to the last one) but also emma is physically incapable of not pissing the agents off

If the Colonel thought Emma was difficult yesterday morning, well, she’s about to experience a whole new level of stubbornness. These military assholes can’t expect to be able to beat her and face no consequences; she’s not just going to take this shit lying down. At least, not metaphorically.

“I’m not going to tell you again, Kelly. Get off the floor.”

Flat on her back in her cell, Emma raises one arm to flip the woman off. She’s managed to annoy her enough to get her to come into the room. She considers that an achievement.

“Very mature, now get up.”

“No thanks.”

Schaffer crouches and grabs her by the front of her gown, but not before the reanimated woman manages to spit on her glove. Immediately the Colonel changes pace, yanking her halfway off the ground and gripping her tight by the chin to make sure she has her attention.

“You better not make spitting a habit,” she says seriously, glaring down at her. “I don’t think you realise how dangerous it is.” Emma makes an attempt to pull her head away but her captor just digs her fingers in. “Do I need to remind you that you are carrying a very powerful pathogen?”

Emma spits again, this one hitting the face shield. It’s not that she _wants_ to infect her - the woman’s protected, she’ll be fine. What she _does_ want to do is annoy her.

The protective glove means that the Colonel letting go of her face and backhanding her across the cheek hurts a bit less than it could’ve. A _bit._

“Jeez, alright,” Emma relents, holding her hands up in surrender as she shuffles into a more stable sitting position. “No more spitting.” _For now._

“Good.” Schaffer lets go of the gown and gets to her feet. “Now put your hair up.”

“It _is_ up,” Emma points out. And she’s right - she put it in a ponytail after combing it as best she could with her fingers last night. From the look on the Colonel’s face, however, she can tell that isn’t good enough. “You know it’s _really_ uncomfortable having the fucking muzzle straps over a bun, right?” She tries to reason. “I can just move this to the side a bit.”

“We need it properly out of the way, Kelly.” The Colonel replies. After a moment looking down at Emma with her head cocked slightly, she leans down a little to briefly run her hand over the woman’s still slightly tangled hair as she contemplates it - a gesture that Emma quickly pushes away. “You know, we did consider cropping it when we got you,” Schaffer comments, seemingly unphased by Emma shoving her hand away, “but we weren’t certain whether your skull was fractured. Didn’t want to risk damage to the brain. We could still do it now, but I can’t promise it would grow back.”

Emma’s nose wrinkles. “What is it with you guys and casually telling me how fucked my corpse was? And I _don’t_ want my head shaved, thanks.”

“Alright, well, if you put your hair up we won’t have to.”

Despite rolling her eyes at that statement, Emma does as she’s told. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not threatening me,” she states. “You’re not very good at hiding it.”

The Colonel doesn’t respond, silently holding out a muzzle.

“You just want to shut me up, don’t you?”

“Put your fucking muzzle on, Kelly.”

“My name is Emma.”

“Muzzle. Now.”

“No thanks.”

As always, the Colonel has to wrestle the test subject into her muzzle. Emma is strong - perhaps stronger than she should be - but Schaffer has training on her side and soon has her pinned on her front while she fastens the buckles. Judging by how long it takes, Emma figures it’s one of the extra-security masks. That means she probably won’t be in the lab. She hates the place more than she ever thought she’d be able to hate a room, but it’s the place where she sees Paul. She wants to check he's okay. It wouldn't surprise her if she was the only one who was assaulted, since she's the one intentionally antagonising their captors, but she can't be sure of it. Not until she sees Paul and figures out some way of asking him. If they’ve hurt Piano Man, then… well, she’s not really sure what she’ll do about it but it’ll probably involve spit. She might just develop a spitting habit out of pure spite.

Once the gag is locked in place, the Colonel stands up and pulls a folded garment from one of her many pockets and tosses it down to Emma. She unfolds the white t-shirt and gives Schaeffer a questioning look.

"Would you rather run in that gown?"

That creates more questions than it answers.

“Just put the shirt on, Kelly.”

* * *

Paul has been sat on a bench in PEIP’s training grounds for quite a while now, tapping his fists together in time to the ever-present piano as the General and Xander talk quietly a few feet away. Despite their low volume he can hear them quite clearly. Perhaps more clearly than he should be able to.

“I’ll radio her if they’re not here at ten past the hour,” the General says.

“Good plan,” Xander agrees. “But it’s probably just Kelly being difficult again.”

“Most likely, yes. The girl’s doing it specifically to frustrate us, apparently.”

Paul can’t help smiling to himself at that, remembering the mischievous looks Blue gave him in the lab. Though she’s understandably scared, she seems to have a level of confidence that Paul himself could never hope to possess. He can’t help but admire her for that.

About a minute before McNamara is due to radio his colleague, she emerges from the building dragging Blue by the muzzle again. Paul locks eyes with his companion almost immediately, and the drums start up in his head again.

“Do you know what this little shit did this morning?” the Colonel grumbles as she shoves Blue down onto the bench beside Paul. Said little shit grins over at the man beside her, urging him to listen as her handler rants to her fellow agents.

“I got her in her muzzle and shirt, but then when it was time to go she went limp. Completely refused to move.”

She wraps Blue’s chain around the bench bedside Paul’s, and moves away to finish narrating the tale to her colleagues. Paul flashes his companion a thumbs up. Before she can return the gesture she has to drag her cuffed hands under her to her front - something Paul did roughly five minutes into waiting on the hard wooden bench. But she manages it quickly enough, giving him a thumbs up, an attempt at a wave, and a smile.

* * *

In all honesty, Emma never expected the agents to allow her and Paul outside. She sits swinging her legs as far as the chain will allow her to, in time to the music in her head and the tapping fists of the man beside her. She’s never been this close to him before, she realises, though there’s still about a foot of space between them - she’s only known him for a few days, after all. If she’s completely honest, ‘known’ is a strong word for it. But it seems it was inevitable that they’d become friends. When she looks up at him, he turns to face her almost instantly despite her not making a sound and gives her a smile that’s supposed to be reassuring, despite the fact that it’s warped by a muzzle and the uncertainty in his bright blue eyes that makes it clear the man’s been way out of his depth for days. She can’t help feeling reassured nonetheless. Shuffling a little closer to him on the bench, she raises her hands and flashes him three signs in quick succession. _Rock, paper, scissors?_

Paul was never the biggest fan of the simple game, but it’s a welcome distraction and a chance to interact with Blue without either of them being experimented on. There’s a bit of confusion at the beginning, what with him revealing his choice on _scissors_ and her adding a _shoot,_ but after some brief, silent negotiations they manage to sort it out.

_Rock, paper, scissors, shoot._ Piano Man wins

 _Rock, paper, scissors, shoot._ Paul wins again.

 _Rock, paper, scissors, shoot._ Blue wins.

Emma playfully elbows the man, grinning up at him - he’s been on a winning streak for a while. But she freezes at the sound of the General’s voice. It’s a little closer than it was before. A little too close for comfort.

“Right, let’s see how fast these things can go.”

Blue shuffles closer to Paul, their arms touching now. Her eyes, which seemed to have dimmed a little, light up bright blue again. They almost seem _too_ vibrant, out of place amongst the rest of her features. Her drums pick up their pace again. The two test subjects lock eyes, and somewhere in the back of his mind he feels her unease shift from being scared for herself to being scared for him. A sudden, desperate desire to know if he’s okay. He reaches over and, after a little hesitation, squeezes her hand as he tries to smile. _I’m okay._

“Hold out your hands, Kelly.”

Pulling her hand out of Paul’s, Emma quickly tucks her arms in against her stomach and draws her knees up to her chest, resting her feet on the bench. She’s fine with staying chained there if it means avoiding the man that assaulted her.

“Kelly-”

His attention is diverted when Paul holds out _his_ hands instead. Blue is scared of McNamara, that’s clear. It makes sense. He’s one of their jailors and he’s a fair bit bigger than the small captive woman. At least, he assumes that’s why she’s so shaken by him. Hell, even with his height advantage Paul can’t help but be intimidated by the General.

He glances down at the woman, staring up at McNamara with wide, bright eyes. And is she trembling too?

God, he _hopes_ it’s just because he’s bigger than her.

“I said _Kelly,_ Ben.”

Paul would be lying if he claimed not to be scared of disobeying his keeper. But Blue is far more opposed to doing as he says. He can feel it, like trying to force together two north poles. So keeps his hands held out. If it has even a chance of diverting his attention from Blue, it's worth it.

"I'm unlocking both of you, Benny," the General says sternly, pushing his hands away. "I admire your chivalry, but it's not needed. Kelly needs to learn to follow its orders."

Though Emma sees Paul’s hands curl into fists, he keeps them in his lap. She appreciates him trying to take her place, even if it was never going to work. Quite the gesture for a woman he doesn’t even know the name of.

“Kelly, I’m not going to tell you again.” There’s a warning in the man’s eyes; a look clearly meant to remind her of what happened last time she saw him. Averting her eyes to her lap, she returns her feet to the ground and holds out her cuffed hands. Soon the chains are off. She expects to be grabbed or forced into some other restraint, but the General just crouches to remove her ankle chain, then moves away without bothering her. She cocks her head, giving the man a questioning look.

“Don’t get excited. The yard is secure, and there will be severe consequences for any funny business.”

As soon as they’re both loose, Blue springs to her feet and takes Paul’s hand. She almost seems to be radiating energy, sweeping her gaze across the field, checking whether Mcnamara’s claim of security is accurate. He can’t help but think she’s ready to take off with him in tow at any moment. Paul squeezes her hand as he stands too, silently begging her not to try anything. She seems to get the message, doing nothing more than gently pulling him a step away from the General.

“Right, you two. Follow me.”

Paul has to give Blue a little tug forward before she hesitantly accompanies him as he follows the General. He gets that she doesn’t want to go with him - he doesn’t really want to either - but what else are they going to do? He doesn’t want to push his luck, and Blue’s already pushing hers. He doesn’t want her to have to face whatever punishment they’d give her for her disobedience.

Xander is the one to explain the experiment - they have a track and speed cameras set up, they want to see how fast their lab rats can run. Simple enough. Emma’s more interested in Xander himself. She’s gotten used to the General and Colonel wearing thick vests covered in pockets, but Xander wearing one under his jacket is new. Or at least, she’s pretty sure it is. She figures she would remember if the guy who claimed to just want a talk had a pistol strapped to his chest. Did he put on the extra protection just because her and Paul are loose? How strong does he think they are?

“Alright, we’ll start with… Benny,” Xander decides. He indicates for Paul to step forward and he does, but Blue doesn't let go of his hand. Before he can react the General seizes her by the muzzle straps and yanks her back to stand beside him. Her grip tightens on Paul, inadvertently pulling him with her.

"Stay back, Kelly."

She claws at her captor’s fingers with her free hand, still holding tight to her companion with the other. Paul tries to apologize with his eyes as he gently pulls away from her. He hates to leave her with McNamara, but what choice does he have?

Emma watches Paul step up to the start line of the track and set off running. He’s fast. Not record-breakingly fast, but faster than the average man should be able to go. He gets to the end of the track and back within a few minutes. They send him back and forth over and over but he never seems to tire, never slowing down. And then it’s her turn. She hates it. She hates running away down the track because putting her back to the agents makes her uneasy. She hates running back because she desperately wants to stay away from them. Beneath the thin layer of grass the ground is cold and hard against her bare feet. The muzzle straps are still uncomfortable around her head. She wonders if this is what it feels like to be a greyhound at the races.

But, much like a racing greyhound, there’s a certain excitement in the experience too. She can run faster than she’s ever run before. Her breath stays steady no matter how long she sprints for. Her muscles don’t so much as twinge. Her feet hit the ground in time to the ever-present drumming in her head. Maybe she would feel free if she wasn’t so painfully aware of her captivity.

Eventually Schaffer stops Blue, grabbing her arm and telling her to wait. McNamara gives Paul a light push forwards. "Both of you this time, Ben."

"If one of you gets to the other end first, wait there and start back at the same time," Xander instructs them as the Colonel lets go of Blue and Paul steps forward to stand alongside her.

"What do you mean, if?" The General comments. "Benny's faster. Look at how much longer its legs are."

Paul rests his hands on his arms to stop them from curling into fists. He hates when people talk about them like they're just animals, unaware that they’re even being discussed. The biologists do it too - he’s heard them referring to him and Blue as just ‘the male’ and ‘the female’ before. Comments like that make him desperately want to get out of this bed he’s made.

Beside him, his companion glares over her shoulder at the General, pulling her slightly oversized shirt further onto her shoulder.

“That’s true,” the Colonel comments, “but Kelly’s stubborn. It’s not going to _let_ Ben outrun it.”

The reanimated woman looks up, and their eyes meet again. The look on Blue’s face makes Paul certain that Schaffer’s words are _completely_ true. But he doesn’t have time to come up with a response before McNamara gives the command and they’re off running. Blue is fast. Not quite as fast as Paul - her legs _are_ shorter - but she seems determined to keep up with him, pushing herself forward to the point where the drums and piano threaten to fall out of sync. She wants a race. Well, why not? If they can’t get out of being run back and forth like animals, they might as well have fun with it.

So Paul puts on a little burst of speed, and though the distance between them widens slightly the instruments in their head settle back into synchronisation. Emma grins to herself. She might be losing at the moment, but her companion has picked up on the game. She'll have other chances to beat him.

They cross the other end of the track a few paces apart. Blue playfully shoves her companion and he gently pushes back, raising an eyebrow, teasing her and her short legs. She snorts with mock-indignation, stepping back to the end of the track and indicating with her head for him to follow. He takes up position beside her. She holds up three fingers, then two, then one - all in time to her drumbeat. And they’re off again.

Even with Paul going flat-out from the start this time his opponent seems to be closer behind him than before. Well, he’s not going to allow that. She wants a race and he’ll give her a bloody race. He pushes harder but finds himself unable to widen the gap - Blue is just as determined as him. They cross the end of the track a pace apart.

Emma barely notices the agents stood close behind them, too busy giving a countdown on her fingers, grinning up at Paul as he grins down at her. _Three. Two. One._ And she runs faster than she’s ever run before, feet pounding against the ground, dead set on catching up with him this time. Piano Man may have longer legs but Emma has the power of spite on her side.

She crosses the end of the track about an inch ahead of Paul. He can’t pretend to be upset at the loss as she lightly pummels his arm, grinning. He’s never seen her so happy. After she’s had her moment he gently pushes her away slightly, smiling too. She drops the teasing grin then, reaching for his hand. He gently takes it again, indicating with his head to the track. They need to get back. Instantly she stiffens, shifting a little closer to him. He gets the message - she doesn’t want to be separated again. When he nods his agreement she gives him a small smile, almost too soft to be seen through the muzzle. It takes a moment for him to realise he’s blushing. But when he does he quickly looks away and steps towards the track.

Neither is aware of themself running any slower or faster than they would usually, but the two spend the entire run back side by side, in time to the music in their minds.

* * *

“What’s gotten you looking so chipper, Ben?”

The General has just closed the door between him and the creature after removing its muzzle, and while ‘chipper’ may be an overstatement there’s a small smile on its face that wasn’t so obvious through the gag. It’s certainly a change from the boy’s usual anxious demeanor.

“Well, I… It was nice to be able to interact with Blue like that,” it explains as it turns so he can remove the handcuffs.

“Blue?”

Immediately Ben seems a little tenser. There’s silence for a few moments. “I’m not going to call her Kelly,” it eventually mutters. “She doesn’t like it.”

McNamara pushes a clean gown through the hatch in the door. “Well, whether you two like it or not Kelly _is_ her name.”

It ignores that statement, changing out of the t-shirt in silence and walking over to the door, but pauses with its fingers resting on the handle. The creature looks back through the window.

“Will I ever get to actually talk to her?”

John hesitates. There were never any plans to let the pair interact more than what’s strictly necessary, but seeing the hope in Benny’s eyes…

It could be an interesting dynamic to investigate. Eventually.

“We’ll see, Benny.”

That small smile returns briefly. “Thank you, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	6. Shit continues to be Fucked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emma’s still having a Bad Time and paul is getting suspicious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you like dialogue

Emma rubs at her neck under the muzzle strap, glaring at the two-way mirror. She’s back in an interrogation room, back in a stupid flimsy gown. She’s disliked having to wear those things from day one, but after the General undid the fastenings so he could beat her she’s _hated_ them. They’re nothing but a facade of privacy that she knows she doesn’t really have.

Near immediately after being cuffed to the table, a few biologists came in to draw a little blood and take her vital signs - small tests that aren’t worth taking her to the lab and strapping her down for - but once they’re gone she’s left completely alone. Again.

Eventually the door swings open to let Xander in. "Hey, Kelly."

She doesn’t look up. "That's _still_ not my name."

The man huffs as he sits down, but he's smiling. "You want to renew the name-for-talking deal?" he suggests, as if it's some in-joke between them. The test subject isn’t amused.

"I don't want you to call me Emma for some fucking deal,” she spits. “I want you to call me Emma out of basic fucking respect."

His expression falls a little. "Hey, what's up? You seemed pretty cheerful when we left the yard."

It takes a few moments for her to come up with a response; there's a hundred ways she could answer 'what's up?'. Eventually she settles on the most pressing issue.

"You lied."

The man feigns confusion. "About what?"

"Probably a load of shit, but specifically you said we wouldn't suffer unnecessarily. That was bullshit. Or are you going to tell me being beaten was necessary?"

She folds her arms as much as she can, glaring. The man nods to himself. "Right. Yes, I thought you'd have some questions about that.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “You’re not going to like this, but it… it _was_ actually deemed necessary.”

Emma is dumbfounded for a moment. She had immediately jumped to the assumption that Xander had lied, she didn’t even _consider_ the idea that these people are so disconnected from her humanity that they’d pretend there was nothing wrong with assaulting her.

“What the _fuck?”_ She slams her hands onto the table in time to a particularly aggressive beat from the drums in her head.

“Now, Kelly-”

“Fucking _assholes!”_

“I understand that-”

“No! No you fucking don’t!” The drums are picking up again, her foot tapping intensely on the floor. “Have you even _tried_ to see this from my perspective?” Xander begins to reply, but Emma continues before she can be interrupted.

“Say you agree to let your body be studied because you don’t really give a shit what happens to your corpse when you’re done with it, there's a two hundred dollar incentive and you’re short on cash. Then you only make it to thirty, which sucks enough by itself. But _then_ you wake up in a lab and they change your name and keep you either chained up or in a tiny empty cell, and you’re sleeping on concrete and getting poked at and jabbed with needles by scientists, and you can’t tell them to stop or even talk to the one other guy going through it all with you because you’re gagged half the time. And when you say you don’t want to be part of this, tell them you just want to _fucking_ go home, they fucking _beat_ you and ask you why you’re being so difficult because apparently agreeing to donate a dead body is consenting to abuse.”

By the end of her outburst she’s fighting to stop her voice from shaking, quickly scrubbing away the tears before they can fall. She glares at the man as she curls her trembling hands into fists. Her spit is thickening again, a hint of that sweet taste on her tongue. He appears to take a minute to consider her words.

“Okay, firstly, it wasn’t a punishment,” he states plainly. “It had nothing to do with your behaviour.”

The foot tapping steps up a notch. “I don’t believe you, but sure. Sure. Why was it necessary?”

“I can’t disclose too much, but we needed to put you into _intense_ fight-or-flight.”

One hand starts tapping too. “So you designed an experiment that hinged on just completely fucking me up? Or-” She falters momentarily. “Fuck, you _better_ not have done that shit to Piano Man too.”

“Benny wasn’t harmed.”

Emma finds herself believing him this time. After all, she _tried_ to ask Paul if he was okay, and he replied with something she’s _pretty_ sure was a yes. But while she’s relieved her friend wasn’t hurt, she can’t help feeling a little bitter. Of course it was _her_ that they chose to take the pain. Of course. Because she’s never anything more than second best.

Her silence - apart from the incessant tapping - appears to be making the man uncomfortable, and eventually he breaks it himself. "Look, Kelly, we know that that particular method of experimentation is a lot for you to have to handle. We've been discussing possible compensation - perhaps something for your room?"

"You mean cell? Don't pretend it's not a fucking cell. And yeah, literally anything would be an improvement, it’s a concrete box. I sleep on the goddamn floor.”

"I'll see what can be done."

She attempts to pull her gown properly onto her shoulders, glaring at him. She can't help but think his 'seeing what can be done' is a lot like a dismissive parent's 'we'll see'. But all she can do is try.

"Or... you could let me talk to Piano Man."

"I thought you were calling him Not-Ben?" Xander teases, avoiding the request.

"I was," Emma replies simply. She's not sure whether Xander knows that Paul told her his name in the lab. She doesn't want to risk ratting him out if the biologists haven’t snitched already.

"Where'd the new nickname come from?"

"He sounds like a piano,” she explains. There’s no point lying about that, he probably already knows about Paul’s instrument. “In my head, I mean. With the drums. He has a piano."

"Can you hear that now?"

"No, just when I'm with him."

"You've never heard it when he's in another room?"

"No," she lies. She doesn't fancy explaining how she reached for him in desperation, how she managed to hold onto that piano through her pain. The man seems unsatisfied with her answer, but moves on.

“Speaking of Ben, you two seem to be getting along alright.”

“What’s it to you?”

He doesn’t need to know about her and Paul. She doesn’t want him poking around in that relationship - the only good thing she has - and besides, the guy probably doesn’t want her telling one of their captors about every detail of their sort-of-conversations.

“This isn’t just me being nosy. This is an important part of the investigation. You _know_ you have a link.”

“Yeah, and it’s a private link. None of your damn business.”

“Kelly-”

“Are you going to let me talk to him?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. “I’ll see what can be done.”

“It’s not a hard fucking question, Xander. Am I going to see him without us being gagged? Yes or no.”

“Kelly, I promise you I’m being honest when I say I don’t know. You’re just going to have to be patient with us, okay?”

She doesn’t respond, only mumbling a complaint about the name he used under her breath. A complaint that is heard but not acknowledged.

“Okay. Now, let’s get back to that link, yeah?”

“No.” The sweet taste is back and getting stronger.

“I don’t need to know _everything._ Just a few simple questions about how it works.”

“The answer is _no,_ okay?” she spits, a few flecks of blue splattering against the inside of the muzzle. “Just let us have this _one_ thing.”

She can feel the drums getting louder, echoing in her ribcage. She’s sure her heart is beating in time.

“...Alright,” he says eventually. “Okay, I can see you’re getting stressed. We can leave that topic there for today, but we _are_ going to have to talk about it eventually. You’ll have a bit of a wait in your room while I talk to Benny, how about you take that time to think it over?”

“The answer isn’t going to change.”

Xander sighs. “Please, just think about it. This investigation, it’s… well, I think it’s more important than you realise.”

He’s probably right about that. But until she’s given a reason to, Emma doesn’t care. She just shrugs, still tapping her foot.

“Okay, one last thing. Kelly- Kelly, _look at me when I say this._ You _cannot_ keep spitting at the Colonel.”

Emma’s tapping pauses. He’s never looked as stern as he looks now. “Why?” she asks, for the first time asking a question out of genuine curiosity rather than anger. “How dangerous _is_ it?”

“A _lot_ more dangerous than I think you see it as. You’re kept masked or handled with a lot of PPE for a reason, this is a pathogen we need to keep contained. There are going to be consequences if you keep being so reckless with it.”

The foot tapping resumes as she remembers the brief but harsh pain of being slapped. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be entrusting such a dangerous pathogen to a couple of complete strangers,” she retorts

“I’m serious. If you keep it up you’re going to have to stay masked around the clock, and I _know_ you’d hate that.”

The woman’s hands curl into fists. She _knew_ these guys were unethical, but that’s taking the piss. “You can’t fucking do that. You already make me sleep on the floor, and you're going to add a muzzle on top of that? And how the hell am I supposed to...”

She pauses, her brow furrowing, thinking, suddenly confronted with something that she _really_ should have noticed by now.

“...I haven’t eaten in, like… three days,” she says quietly as the thought occurs to her. And then, louder, “you bastards didn’t give me food for _three fucking days?!”_

“Are you hungry?”

That question takes her off guard. She knows she _should_ be hungry. But she’s not. Hell, she didn’t even notice she was being starved.

“...No. But everyone has to eat, don’t they?”

“You seem to be doing just fine without it.”

"Wh- You can't just _not_ feed us, how do you know this fucking infection isn't supressing our appetite?"

Xander attempts to soften his body language as her fidgeting begins to escalate again. “Rest assured, Kelly, you are being closely monitored,” the man says gently, looking her in the eyes. “You’ll be given food if you need it.”

Emma takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. As much as she doesn’t trust anyone in this godforsaken place to provide for her, she doesn’t doubt that statement. They went to all the trouble of raising her from the dead, they’re not just going to let her waste away.

“Alright, I believe that. I’m still pissed about the muzzle thing, though.”

“Well, stop spitting and you won’t have to worry about it.”

“...Sure.” She can live without spitting. “I’ll stop spitting at people, but I’ll probably squirm twice as much to make up for it.”

“Kelly, _please-”_ His exasperation hits a nerve in her.

“God, do you really just expect me to have no issue following the orders of some assholes who treat me like a fucking _rat?”_

“Benny seems to be managing it.”

Emma pauses. “...Don’t call him that, it’s not his name,” is all she can come up with at first. And then, after a moment’s thought, “he’s just… scared.”

“He says the same thing about you.”

She can’t help but hate the way the man smiles as he says that, as if he can’t imagine why they would be fucking terrified. Because she _is_ scared, she’s just as scared as she knows Paul is. She just shows it differently.

“Are we done here?”

“Do you have any questions?”

“My question is if we are fucking done already. Can I go back to my concrete box now, please?”

“...Alright. I’ll radio the Colonel to pick you up.”

* * *

Paul lightly taps his fingers against the tabletop, staring over his shoulder at the door. In all honesty, he was hoping that this would happen. He has some questions in need of answers.

Xander has barely gotten through the door before he comments on how pensive the man is looking. “General Mcnamara tells me you were in a good mood earlier.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been doing some thinking.”

“What about?”

Paul hesitates for a moment. He can’t pretend he’s not nervous, but he _needs_ this addressed. “Blue,” he says simply.

“What about her?”

“There’s… a few things. For one, I asked the General if I’d get to talk to her earlier, but then I thought about it more and… well… why _haven’t_ we got to speak to each other? Why are we always gagged?”

“The masks are important, Benny. You’re carrying a dangerous pathogen.”

“I understand that, but why don’t we wear _these_ ones more?” he asks, pointing to the muzzle currently strapped over his face - the one with a distinct lack of a metal bit. “What’s with the gags?”

It takes Xander a little longer to answer that one. “We need to minimise the risk of disruption during tests.”

Paul pauses for a moment, thinking it over. Blue is _definitely_ disruptive, she has been from day one. They both were when they first woke up. But how could they not be? They were _terrified._

“So you were prepared, from the start, for us to be disruptive,” he says slowly. “You _knew_ that we’d be either very scared or very angry, and you thought the best way to solve that would be restraint?”

“Well, what would you suggest instead?”

“Explaining - _properly_ explaining - right when we woke up what was going on?” He begins to tap his fists together as the piano gets a little louder. “Making us feel safe instead of like lab rats? Or maybe you could have used people who _actually_ signed up for this?”

He pauses to swallow - his saliva feels a little thicker than it should be. A little thicker and a little sweeter.

“I’ve been trying to justify all this to myself because I _technically_ gave my consent,” he says, voicing this thought as it occurs to him. “But I’m starting to think that’s all bullshit.”

“In what way?”

Xander is starting to sound concerned, perhaps realising that Paul is taking the discussion into difficult-to-justify territory.

“Well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that someone donating their body would assume they’re not going to be fucking ressurected. _That_ should have been clear, you should have used people that knew what’s going on with this whole pathogen investigation before they died, who gave actual informed consent instead of whatever technicality you’ve got me and Blue here on.”

Xander tries to interject, to give some explanation, but Paul is getting tired of his flimsy justifications. When he woke up he followed his companion’s lead on being scared, and now he’s realising just how right she was about being angry too.

“And even without that,” he continues, “even if for some reason it _had_ to be strangers, you didn’t have to treat us like animals. I doubt it would have been difficult to give us _beds,_ for fuck’s sake. Or is the bare minimum too much to ask?”

“There is no minimum,” Xander explains. “Any rights you had while you were alive were terminated when you died.” The man looks uncomfortable with his own explanation, but he hides behind it nonetheless. “You’re still dead, Benny.”

“So what?” The sweet, near sickly taste is unignorable now. “So fucking what? You’re just going to throw ethics out of the window because you found an excuse? And my name is Paul, by the way. There’s no reason to change it.”

He’s shaking where he sits, days-overdue rage overpowering any fear of the consequences that arguing with his captors may have. That niggling little thought has wormed its way into the back of his head again: _spit. Spit in the bastard’s face._ If he wasn’t muzzled, maybe he’d be tempted to follow it.

“The ethics of the study were debated and settled long before you got here, Benny. The situation isn’t going to change, I’m sorry.”

Paul just glares, his fists still tapping incessantly.

“You said you had other questions about Kelly, right?”

The man recognises Xander’s attempt to steer the conversation away from some tricky topics, but he takes the bait nonetheless. He _does_ have other questions.

“Has General McNamara hurt her?” he asks, his words still laden with rage. He couldn’t think of a less blunt way to put it, and he doesn’t want to. This way it will be easier to notice when Xander inevitably avoids the question.

“What makes you think that?” Xander asks, avoiding the question.

“She’s scared of him, and she was scared for me when he came near us. She hasn’t acted like that before today. Has he hurt her?”

“How do you know so much about why she was scared?”

“That’s between me and Blue.” It’s getting hard for Paul to keep his voice steady, asking through gritted teeth, _“has he hurt her?”_

“That link is an important element of this investigation, Benny, we need to talk about it.”

Sick of all the question-dodging, Paul slams his fists onto the table. The piano is playing furiously in the back of his mind.

“HAS HE _FUCKING_ HURT HER?!”

Xander flinches, alarmed. A little of that too-thick, too-sweet spittle drips into the bottom of Paul’s mask.

“...Alright,” Xander says. “Okay, we’ll talk about this. Just calm down, Ben.” He waits for the man’s fists to loosen a little before he continues. “We’re using Kelly for the exact same tests as we are you.”

Paul takes a deep breath. “So she’s not been hurt.”

“No. The worst McNamara will have given her is a talking-to about her behaviour, that’s probably why she was nervous.”

Paul unclenches his fists completely, slumping down a little in his chair, relieved. While Xander may have twisted words in places, Paul finds it unlikely that he would outright lie about this. Surely that would harm the integrity of the experiments, or… something like that. He can’t pretend to know exactly how investigations like this work.

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because we _need_ to know about what that link can do. How about you walk me through what effects it had this morning?”

“Why do you need to know?” Paul asks defensively. That link he has with Blue is private, as far as he’s concerned. The two of them didn’t consent to having their personal relationships invaded any more than they consented to being raised from the dead.

“Because we’re trying to figure out what exactly this pathogen can do,” Xander explains. “Then we’ll move on to the how and the why. And that includes this connection it creates between hosts - namely, you and Kelly.”

Paul looks down at his hands, fingers tapping against the desk again. Alongside the invasion of privacy, Xander calling the woman ‘Kelly’ is… uncomfortable. Not that he wants him calling her ‘Blue’ either. That would be taking a nickname given out of necessity and care and twisting it into another replacement. Xander has begun to ask another question, but Paul cuts him off.

“What’s Blue’s name?”

The agent doesn’t answer for a moment, seemingly taken off-guard. “It’s Kelly. You know that.”

“No, you know that’s not what I meant. I’d bet any money - if I _had_ money - that she’s told you her _actual_ name. At least have the decency to use it.”

“Her name is Kelly. That’s official, it’s on our records, I’m not going to debate it.”

“And my name is Ben on your records, but here I am telling you it’s Paul Matthews!”

“I’m not going to debate this,” Xander reiterates. “Can we please get back to the link?”

Paul sighs. He didn’t really expect Xander to just give over her name, but it was worth a try.

“I don’t want to talk about the link,” he says plainly. “That’s a breach of my privacy _and_ hers.”

“It’s incredibly important, Benny.”

“Well, maybe I’d care about that if I knew _anything_ about this investigation.”

Xander sighs, then gets up to retrieve his laptop bag from the door. “Alright then, we’ll talk about this later. For now, we’re going to do the same tests we did yesterday, okay?”

* * *

Being shown an array of random cards and told to pick one is just as confusing as it was the last time. Paul plays it off instinct - there’s no point agonising over this. Blue triangle, green square, red circle. He has _no_ clue what this could be for. Are they going to psychoanalyse him through his choice of basic shapes?

Eventually they move onto the photos. Again, the selections are mostly random. But sometimes he’s more sure of himself, sometimes he gets a vague feeling in the back of his mind, a thought he can’t quite put his finger on, that pulls him towards one image or another. He can only liken it to when he looks at Blue and just _knows_ what she’s feeling. Maybe it’s the same thing; Xander _did_ say they were doing the same tests, maybe she’s looking at those same images now. The link must be getting stronger if that’s the case, and that brings Paul a little comfort - something he’s been finding hard to come across lately. If it keeps strengthening like this, maybe they’ll eventually be able to communicate properly regardless of the muzzles.

Just like yesterday, once the test is over Paul is asked to wait quietly while Xander types up his notes. And, just like yesterday, the faint sound of drumbeats soon begins to echo in his head. The nervous fist-tapping resumes as that unease returns, but this time he’s sure it’s Blue’s. What else could it be?

“Did Blue do this test at the same time?” He asks nervously.

“Yes.” Xander doesn’t look up.

“Who with?”

“The Colonel and General.”

Paul’s brow furrows. Schaffer he can make sense of, she’s always with Schaffer, but McNamara? The man who usually deals with _him,_ and who Blue is afraid of? Why would he be with them? He can feel that same fear now, though it’s faint.

“Why both of them?” he asks.

“She’s disruptive, sometimes she requires an extra pair of hands.”

That doesn’t sit right either. “She can’t be more than five foot and she’s kept in chains,” he retorts. “And presumably the Colonel has military training. You’re telling me she can’t handle showing Blue some cards?”

“It’s not about what can be handled, it’s about what’s safe.”

Paul looks down at his tapping hands, that sweet taste returning to his mouth.

“Are you okay, Benny?”

“I just don’t like the thought of her being alone in a room with them.”

The test subject pauses for a moment, a little confused by the fact that he unintentionally said that in time to his tapping fists. But he’s brought back into the conversation by another question.

“Why not?”

“She’s scared. She’s alone with them and she’s scared, and I don’t know why.”

Xander looks from his face to his tapping fists; he’s noticed that he’s speaking to the beat too. The music is getting louder, pushing itself to the forefront of his mind.

“Are you hearing her drums again?”

“I’m hearing her drums and I’m feeling her fear and I want to know what’s happening to her.”

“She’s fine.”

“I don’t know if I can trust that.”

“Ben,” Xander begins to reply, but he’s cut off when the man quietly begins to sing.

_“I… I wanna be in the room where it happens, the room where it happens.”_

He’s surprised by his own words. He meant to _say_ that, not _sing_ it. But the melody feels... nice. It feels _right._ So he keeps going. Repeating that same want over and over as he feels thick sludge begin to drip down his chin. He _needs_ to know what’s happening to his friend, she’s _definitely_ not fine. Soon the lyrics change; he doesn’t just _want_ to be there, he’s _got_ to. His foot joins his tapping fists, eyes shining blue. Xander watches apprehensively, tensed in his seat, as if he’s ready to bolt for the door if he needs to. The caution is unnecessary, though; his brief song comes to an end without incident.

Paul’s fists keep tapping, even as the music in his mind quiets down a little. Letting it just spill out like that felt _fantastic,_ but that fear is still eating away at the back of his head. He needs answers, he needs to be able to trust those answers, and above all else he needs to be with Blue. If their jailors will do nothing to care for her, if they’ll be downright cruel and lie about it, then he needs to be there. He needs to at least _try_ to keep her safe.

* * *

Emma is still shaking when the cell door slams behind her. She lifts one hand to wipe at her eyes, the other gripping the dark grey blanket bundled under her arm. Compensation, apparently. Like giving a child a lollipop after a shot. As a kid she always thought that was a shitty fucking deal.

As she wipes her hand on her gown she catches a glance of herself in the mirror. It’s hard not to in this room. God, she looks _ill -_ eyes bloodshot with blue from crying, blue stains around her mouth and nose and eyelids. There’s even some encrusted in her ears. It’s like she’s leaking.

Just a _little_ disturbed by that thought, she looks away from the glass and makes her way to the other side of the tiny cell. For the last two nights she’s slept curled up in the corner furthest from the door, so that’s where she deposits the blanket, folding it up into an imitation of a small mattress. It’s not a bad blanket by any means, it’s soft and fluffy and fairly thick, but it’ll take some imagination to see it as a bed. She sits on it as she re-ties the top few tags on her back; the General fastens them with simple bows. She prefers knots. And after the fleeting moment of glee she got from hearing him complain as he unpicked them, she makes sure to twist the fabric into the messiest knots she can manage and pull them tight. _She_ can just pull the thing off over head if she needs to. But anyone else trying to mess with it is going to have to suffer for it. Having nothing else to do, she spends a while double and triple knotting every tie on her gown.

Eventually the light shuts off in her cell. Emma doesn’t feel tired - she hasn’t since she was revived - but what else is she going to do all night? If nothing else, sleep passes the time. Just like the last two nights, she pulls her arms out of her sleeves and bundles herself up in the oversized gown, the concrete only slightly padded by the blanket that she’s pretending is a bed. She tosses a little before settling, curled tight in the corner with her back to the room, trying to hide her face from the window.

Emma never thought she’d be so bothered about being alone at night, but sleeping in a near-empty cell is enough to make her wish, for the first time in her life, that she had a roommate. One roommate in particular. Sure, the cell is barely big enough for one person, but maybe if they locked her and Paul up together this would all suck a little less. It certainly wouldn’t be as lonely.

She has no clue where her friend is now, but she can only presume he’s in another cell. He could be locked up on the other side of the facility, for all she knows. And she has no clue how far away _that_ could be. The place might be massive. But she’s managed to find him in her own head twice now. She can do it again.

It takes a little while, but eventually she has the soft tones of a piano to comfort her. And on the other side of a thick concrete wall, lying on his side on the floor, Paul has a steady, gentle drumbeat to help lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song lyrics from ‘the room where it happens’, from hamiltion
> 
> my tumblr is wizisbored if youre interested and didnt already know  
> Thanks for reading :)


	7. sir thats my emotional support near-complete stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they fucin Care about eachother,,,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i know i said nightmare time lore doesnt exist in this universe but ive been thinking about it more and have come to the conclusion that actually it does, but it doesnt work in entirely the same way. it probably wont be explicitly mentioned in this particular story, but it exists and ive gone back and deleted the note that says it doesnt
> 
> Content warning for more abuse and a dead animal

The cell is still pitch black when Paul starts awake, continuing the hyperventilation that he started in his sleep. He sits up to spit out an unpleasant amount of sweet-tasting sludge, resulting in him vomiting up a great deal more. The piano is going crazy in his mind. His legs are tingling again. Remembering what happened last time he got overwhelmed, he tries holding his breath, taking occasional breaks to spit up slime. Eventually he’s able to calm himself enough to properly take in the situation.

"It was just a dream," he mumbles to himself, closing his eyes and resting his head on the wall. "Just a dream. I’m not dying. I’m already dead."

When he thinks about it, it's a surprise that it took until night three for the nightmares to start. His subconscious certainly had a lot of material to work with, throwing together bleeding out with being bound to a table with buying bread of all things, which is mildly baffling until Paul remembers that was what he had meant to do before he got interrupted by a knife. He can only hope that on top of all the bullshit he’s dealing with already he isn’t going to be haunted by his ‘unfinished business’ of making a grilled cheese.

With no clock in the room, Paul has no way of knowing how much longer it will be before the lights come on. It could be midnight, could be six in the morning. Either way he doesn’t fancy going back to sleep. That narrows down his options a fair amount, since there’s only two available activities in his cell: sleeping or pacing. So, one hand on the concrete to feel out the corners before he walks into a wall, he begins to trudge around and around the tiny space. His feet hit the ground in time to his piano’s melody without his intention, and while he’s grown fond of the keys in his head he can’t help thinking it would sound better with a drumbeat. In all honesty, he misses Blue. Even if he wasn’t worried about her safety he’d still want to see her. It’s odd, considering a woman he barely knows his friend, but from what he can gather she’s brave and determined and takes nobody’s shit, but she has the compassion to care about a stranger. She’s someone he _wants_ to know.

With his feet hitting the ground to the beat, it’s easy to hear where the drums should be. He closes his eyes, though that makes little difference in the pitch black, and looks for them. “‘Cmon, Blue… Where are you?”

It takes a little while, but eventually the sound comes to him. At first he’s not sure whether he’s imagining it, but when it gets louder and it’s clear that it’s threatening to fall out of sync with his piano he knows it’s his friend. It’s his friend, and she’s panicking. He almost panics too, immediately worried that she could be hurt, until he realises what must be happening; she’s had a nightmare too. She’s had a nightmare and nobody told her to hold her breath to remind herself that she _can’t_ be dying, she’s already dead. His piano catches up to the beat as he thinks about it. She must be terrified.

He stops walking, scrunching his eyes shut tighter. _Hold your breath. Hold your breath, you don’t need it. You’re already dead._ If Blue can beam her fear directly into his head, maybe he can calm her down the same way. _It’s okay. I’ve got you._ _We’re going to be okay. Okay?_

There’s no answer, but he doubts she’s hearing him word-for-word. The sentiment appears to be getting through, however, as the tempo is slowing. Soon they’re back to their regular pace. Paul resumes his pacing, though there’s a vague feeling in the back of his mind that he can’t quite put his finger on. It’s a good one though, and he soon figures it out. Gratitude. He smiles to himself in the darkness.

  
“You’re welcome, Blue.”

* * *

Emma doesn’t fall asleep again that night, sitting on her blanket and combing her fingers through her hair just for something to do until the light flicks on and she’s able to find a better way of amusing herself. Sitting by the mirror, she stares into her own eyes as she ties her hair. Brown eyes, at least for now. Because she’s looked into two-way mirrors in the lab and interrogation room and cell and seen them bright blue.

She shuts her eyes tight, trying to focus. _C'mon… Blue eyes!_ She looks in the mirror again. Same brown eyes. In all honesty, she didn't expect that to work; she's never been conscious of them changing colour. Closing her eyes again, she drums her hands on the floor, trying to hype herself up. Energy might do it. When she opens her eyes again there's a blue tinge to her irises that quickly fades.

Most of her morning is spent working out what will change her eye colour. _Doing the investigation for them,_ she thinks bitterly, but she’s bored and curious so she might as well. But she only manages to achieve that unnatural blue when she hears faint footsteps on the other side of the wall and tenses, silently begging whoever it is to just keep walking. But the red light and buzzer confirm her suspicions; it’s time for another day of hell.

It takes two blasts from the buzzer before Emma bothers to move at all, wearily getting to her feet, crossing the room, and lying down to fold the blanket she’s pretending is a bed around her head to cover her ears. The buzzer persists. She remains on the floor.

Eventually the noise stops, and a few moments later the door opens. Emma smiles to herself, knowing she’s pissed Schaffer off again, but freezes up when she hears the voice that calls out to her.

“Kelly! On your feet!”

That’s not the Colonel’s voice. No, that’s the _General._ For a moment she’s unable to respond. _Why is he here?_

“Come on, Kell. We don’t have time for this.”

Letting go of the blanket, she rolls to face him. She’s still scared of him, of course, but she figures he’ll probably hurt her in some way no matter what she does. Switching out the agent managing her won’t interfere with her resolution to annoy them.

“What’s up, General mac’n’cheese?” she asks, finding it surprisingly easy to keep her voice steady as she stretches briefly and remains lounging on the floor like a cat in a sunbeam, her head still resting on the folded blanket.

“You need to get up,” he says plainly, reaching down and catching her by the arm. But when he tries to haul her off the ground she stays limp.

“How come you’re the one bothering me today?” she asks as he places on her feet and she sits back down as soon as he lets her go. “That’s usually Schaffer’s job.”

“The Colonel was complaining about your behaviour,” he explains as he takes a set of cuffs from his belt and crouches to grab at her ankle, “so I proposed a wager.”

“What, you bet you could handle me better?” Emma asks, attempting to pry his fingers off of her foot. She’s not sure whether she should be insulted or proud.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

The woman allows him to cuff her ankles as she takes a moment to think.

“So... What’s in it for me if I help you win that bet?”

The offer feels a little dirty, if she’s honest, but she has to take any bargaining chip she’s given. But the man just shakes his head.

“I’m a man of my word, Kelly. I will not stoop to bribery.”

She shrugs, jumping to her feet with ease that probably shouldn’t be possible with her feet tightly chained. The drum picks up in her head. “Suit yourself.”

She darts out of his way in time to the instrument, and as the beat begins to pick up a more complex rhythm her feet follow.

“Kelly! Stand still!”

The woman refuses to comply, dodging his grab at her with a smile on her face and a retort of “it’s _Emma,_ actually.” She hums to herself as she skips out of his way, moving more like a dancer than a rebellious rat.

“You’re just going to fall flat on your face if you keep this up!”

Smirking at the man, Emma continues to ignore her orders. She’s _not_ going to fall, she knows she’s not. The drums are keeping her feet _just_ close enough together to keep the chain strung between them slack, its rattle accompanying the beat perfectly. She manages to stay out of his way long enough to almost completely forget her fear of the man. But it all comes flooding back when his hand lashes out and grabs at her throat.

Pinned by the neck against the concrete, Emma freezes, her breath beginning to speed up and a familiar sweet taste quickly building on her tongue. The rage in his face makes her think that perhaps pissing off a military General maybe _wasn’t_ her smartest idea. But when he starts his attempt to shift her to the floor she remembers how to move, thrashing and kicking, clawing at his hand, blue sludge running down her chin.

"It's alright, Kelly," he says, keeping her pinned to the wall as he tries to ease her closer to the ground, "don't panic. I know I've hurt you before but-"

The memory of being beaten presses itself into the forefront of her mind, instantly overwhelming her. He’s going to hurt her. There’s no room for any concern about the danger of the slime building in the back of her throat. She just needs him off her. _Now._ Listening to her instinct she spits hard, hitting his face shield. Instantly he tightens his grip on her throat. Her body goes rigid again.

"You've been warned about this,” he says.

Emma tugs at his fingers. The pressure hurts, she can feel her own pulse beating against his glove. “You’re choking me,” she gasps, struggling to pull in the breath to speak.

He just presses harder. “You don’t need to breathe, girl, don’t change the subject. You’ve been told not to spit and there will be no second chances.”

The sludge is still rising in her throat, not helping the choking situation. She coughs, bringing up a little blue slime.

_“Kelly!”_

“I didn’t-”

Clamping his other hand over her mouth before she can gasp out an explanation, McNamara glares down at the test subject until she stops squirming. “Alright, girl. I’m going to let go of you, and if you try to give me the slip or spit again I _will_ make you regret it, okay?”

“Mhm!”

He lets her go and she sinks to the ground, blinking the tears out of her eyes, the blotchy blue mark across her throat already beginning to fade.

“I know I don’t need to breathe but that still really fucking _hurt,”_ she whimpers.

“Then you shouldn’t have spat,” he says unempathetically as he takes the mask from his belt.

“I panicked!” she yells hoarsely. “Sorry I don’t like being strangled!”

“Panic or no, your behaviour is incredibly reckless.” He crouches down to muzzle the captive, who attempts to push him away. But he quickly pins her to the ground and forces the metal bit into her mouth.

“You really _are_ a squirmy little shit, aren’t you?” he comments as he straps the restraint over her face. “I honestly don’t see why Benny is so fond of you.”

She curls her hands into fists where they’re trapped under her, scowling into the floor. _Because he knows I’m not just a fucking rat,_ she thinks bitterly. She stays there, seething, as he takes his knee off her back. Something soft hits the back of her head.

“Get up and get your shirt on.”

* * *

When the buzzer goes off in Paul’s cell he decides to ignore it. Why should he do as they say? He was doing it out of fear before, but his anger is quickly overtaking his nerves. Besides, if Blue has managed to find the guts to stand up for herself then there’s no reason why he shouldn’t at least try to do the same. The buzzer goes off again. Determinedly staring at the opposite wall, he nervously taps his fists together. He ignores a third buzzer. And then he hears the door open.

“Ben! Have you gone deaf, boy?”

Paul spins to face the door, taken off-guard by the voice.

“Colonel Schaffer?”

“Well, at least you haven’t gone blind. Now come on.”

He hesitates to follow, staying still for a moment before a worrying thought occurs to him. If Schaffer is with him, it’s reasonable to assume that McNamara is with Blue.

“Alright. I’m coming.”

Once the Colonel is back in the corridor and has let Paul into the entranceway, he stands in front of the window with folded arms.

“What did you and McNamara do to Blue yesterday?”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

The woman sighs. “You’re not privy to any investigation details you don’t directly witness, Ben.”

“You hurt her. I know you did.”

“What happened yesterday isn’t relevant now, boy,” she tells him as he pushes a muzzle through the hatch in the door. “Get your mask on.”

“He’s with her now, isn’t he?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“It is if he’s going to hurt her!”

“If he hits her it’ll be a consequence of her behaviour. Now put on your muzzle.”

He takes the mask, but makes no move to put it on, staring at her through the glass.

“Have you hit her getting her out of the cell?” He’s been so wrapped up in the possibility that McNamara had hurt her during experimentation that he didn’t even _consider_ Schaffer abusing her.

“The sooner you’re ready to go the sooner you get to see her, if you’re so worried.”

He narrows his eyes. “Fine. Alright. But if I find out you’ve hurt her, I- God, I dunno what I’m gonna do but I’ll do something.”

* * *

As always, Paul arrives before Blue. Sat on another bench in the training grounds, he nervously taps his fists together, trying to tune back into the drums. When he finds them they’re loud and angry, but thankfully only a little scared. She’s not hurt. Or, at least, she’s not being hurt right now.

When McNamara arrives Paul can immediately tell why Blue sounds so angry. Instead of trying to force the woman to walk, he’s simply thrown her small frame over his shoulder and carried her outside. He doesn’t seem too phased by her writhing in his grip and trying to kick despite the chain binding her ankles. The other two agents apparently find this funny, but with his friend’s obvious distress Paul can’t find the humor in the situation.

She stumbles slightly when the man sets her on the ground and chains her to the bench.

“Sit down, girl.”

Blue immediately flops down beside Paul, and the man walks away to go over the plans with the other agents. Once she’s got her legs through her arms to bring her cuffed hands in front of her and they’ve exchanged the usual silent greetings, Paul very deliberately looks from her to McNamara, hoping she understands what she’s trying to ask: _did he hurt you?_ She follows his gaze, then stares down at her hands for a moment. Finally, sighing quietly, she gives a small nod. Paul doesn’t react immediately; she has more to say. He doesn’t know how he knows that, but he’s sure of it. And, sure enough, she raises her hands, placing one over her throat. _He choked me._ Feeling a little ill now, dreading the answer he’ll get, Paul looks to the Colonel and back to her. _Has Schaffer hurt you?_ She responds by gently tapping the side of her muzzle with the back of one hand. _She hit me._ And then, almost as an afterthought, she holds up a finger. _Only once, though._

Paul couldn’t say he isn’t angry. He’s _furious,_ he could jump to his feet and yell through his gag at those bastards, ask them what the fuck they think gives them the right to so much as _touch_ her. But he doesn't. Blue is sitting beside him with tears in her eyes, and yelling isn’t what she needs right now. So instead he shuffles a little closer and offers her his hands. She takes them immediately, squeezing them tight, and after only a moment’s hesitation closes the gap between them and leans her head on his shoulder. He hears her sniffle, and wishes he had his hands uncuffed to hold her.

* * *

Feeling tears roll down her face, Emma huddles closer to Paul, gripping his hands tight. Holding Paul’s hands is the only way she’s been touched kindly for a long time, since she went from practically no human contact before she died to manhandling and abuse afterwards. When she pulls her feet onto the bench and presses herself closer still she almost expects to be shoved away. She would completely understand him not wanting her so close, Emma herself can barely believe she’s cuddling up to a man she’s been only a silent companion to for a few days. But there’s something about Paul that feels so incredibly safe, and that’s what she needs right now. The feeling only grows when she feels him rest his chin on her head and they silently shift so that her head is on his chest with him gently laying his cheek on her hair. The best hug they can manage with their hands cuffed. He can feel his anger burning at the back of her mind, but despite its intensity it comforts her. He cares. Someone in this godforsaken place actually fucking cares.

They stay like that for a while. Though it’s still morning, Paul could happily fall asleep sat on the bench with Blue. She’s stopped crying - at least, he can’t hear her sniffling anymore, and the stress in the back of his mind has faded. In fact, he can feel her contentment on top of his own. He didn’t realise how much he missed hugs. Even before he became a lab rat he was a rather lonely man, and the fact that his friend seems to trust that he’ll be a source of comfort makes his heart melt a little. He only wishes that the circumstances were better, that Blue hadn’t suffered the abuse that made her need that comfort, and they didn’t have cuffs around their wrists, and there wasn’t a metal bit tugging at the corner of his mouth because of how he’s laid his head. The piano and drums have slowed to a gentle, calming melody, and Paul finds himself absent-mindedly humming along to a few bars. Blue hums back.

Emma has near fallen asleep too, only opening her eyes when she hears someone clear their throat. She tenses up when she sees McNamara with his eyebrows raised.

“This is all rather sweet, you two, but I need to take Kelly now. Hold out your hands, girl.”

She sits up, not wanting him to attack her again, but finds herself unable to extract her hands from Paul’s. He’s holding them too tight. When she looks him in the eyes his intention is clear. _He’s not going to take you if you don’t want to go._ She looks back at their hands and gives him another small nod. _It’s okay. I’ll go._

Watching Blue hold out her hands, staring up at the General with wide, worried eyes, Paul’s anger returns tenfold. He clenches his fists as the man removes his friend’s cuffs and grabs her by the arm, dragging her off the bench and away from him. He can see the man’s fingers digging in, _feel_ her discomfort and fear. He fucking _choked_ her. His breath quickens as he recalls her miming the assault. That bastard put his fucking hand around her throat and… He squeezes his eyes shut as his imagination supplies the images. His keeper is going to have a lot to fucking answer for when he next manages to talk to him. But for now, Paul can only sit seething on the bench and try to think up a way to tell her he _knows_ they hurt her during their experiments. He's certain of it now.

* * *

Emma bites down on the piece of metal in her mouth as the General walks her to what looks to be the start of an obstacle course. She’d like to dig her heels in and try to pry his hand off her arm, but remembering the feeling of a hand at her throat, of being tossed over his shoulder and sternly ordered to lay still… She can go back to kicking up a fuss later. For now, she needs to give herself a little time to recover.

"Right, Kell, we need you to go through these obstacles as quickly as you can,” McNamara explains as he lets go of her arm. “I'll be following alongside to monitor your progress and give any directions you might need."

Emma nods.

"Okay, on three. One, two, _three!"_

Just like the running, Emma hates being put through the obstacles. She can _feel_ McNamara watching her. They still haven't given her shoes, there's cold mud between her toes, and everything that _isn’t_ thick mud is hard and rough. She scrambles through it with her head down, trying to get it over with, internally grumbling that they better give her a clean set of clothes after this. Luckily, like the running, it’s surprisingly easy. Sure, backpacking probably built some upper body strength, but she doubts it would have made hauling herself over a wall _that_ easy. She doesn’t break a sweat, her breath still perfectly steady. But as quickly as she gets through most of the course, she finds herself very carefully lowering herself to the ground when dealing with any sort of height. The thought of falling even a few feet makes her feel ill.

“Good job, girl,” the General congratulates her when she gets to the end. She responds with a middle finger. “Kelly, show some respect,” he warns. She would stick out her tongue if she could, but she has to settle for folding her arms and giving an unimpressed grunt. Luckily this goes unpunished, the man instead focusing on radioing the other agents to tell them she’s finished the course. He doesn’t seem to care about her wandering away.

There’s a shed against the fence not too far from the end of the course, presumably to store equipment. Not the most interesting thing in the world, but more interesting than standing next to McNamara waiting for him to give her some new order. The door, unsurprisingly, is locked, so she instead walks up to the chain link fence. Beyond it she can see only thick woods; she wouldn’t be surprised if they stretched out for miles, keeping this place hidden. It would be easy to lose a pursuer in those woods, she notes. A quick glance up confirms what she already knew - barbed wire. Darn.

It’s when she’s scanning the bottom of the fence for holes that she sees it. Behind the shed, in a space between it and the fence just big enough for a human to slip into, lays a rather big, rather _dead_ rat. Not something she’d usually pay much mind to, but now she finds herself almost… _transfixed_ by it. She takes a few small steps towards it, staring down at the carcass. It’s a smoky dark grey, laid on its back, stiff legs up in the air.

_Spit on it._

She’s not sure where that thought comes from - why the fuck would she want to spit on a dead rat? But she can feel the sweet sludge building in her throat. _Spit on the rat._ Despite herself, she crouches down beside the shed, still staring. She couldn’t spit even if she wanted to, there’s plastic covering her face. _Spit._ Well, maybe she could if she hooked her fingers under the muzzle and flicked the slime at it. _Spit on it._ She wouldn’t even have to get around the muzzle, her eyes and ears are uncovered. It doesn’t just come out of her mouth. _Spit on the fucking rat._ Screw it.

Glancing back to check the General isn’t watching her, Emma sticks a finger in her ear with one hand and grabs the dead rat out of the dirt with the other, with only a _vague_ awareness of how disgusting this is. She’s already filthy from the mud and carrying a powerful infection, she doubts touching the body will significantly worsen the situation. And her face is already stained with blue, what’s some more on her finger going to do? She’s not sure what compels her to wipe the ear-gunk all over its snout but she does it anyway. Why the fuck not? This is a bizarre idea already, might as well make it that bit weirder.

The rat is still in her hand when its stiff body softens, its nose twitches, and it blinks. Emma’s brow furrows - it was _definitely_ dead a moment ago. Did she just resurrect a fucking rat? And then she realises. She just instinctively passed on her infection. _Ah,_ she thinks. _I’ve created a plague rat._

“Kelly!”

Tensing, dropping the rat, Emma silently prays that McNamara didn’t notice the rodent. It quickly scurries into a hole under the shed. She feels a faint pang in her heart as the tail disappears. She’s always been quick to get attached to animals, and she _did_ just give that one life.

“Kelly, what are you-?”

She feels a hand on the back of her head, grabbing her by the muzzle straps, dragging her to her feet and away from the shed. Once they’re a few feet away the General grabs the front of her shirt instead, forcing her to look at him.

“Kelly, what the hell were you doing back there?”

She focuses on trying to pry his hand off her clothing. It’s not like she could answer even if she wanted to.

“Stand still, girl.”

The only response he gets is a frustrated grunt. His free hand balls into a fist.

* * *

Paul gets to the end of the obstacle course just in time to see the back of General McNamara’s hand collide with the side of Blue’s head and hear her yelp through her gag. Schaffer can’t catch him quick enough. It was hard not retaliating against the Colonel knowing what she’s done, but seeing the General actually do it is too much. He’s on them in seconds, grabbing the man’s arm and yanking it back before he can get in another blow, yelling through his muzzle for him to _fucking leave her alone._ In response, the General roughly shoves Blue away and turns his attention to Paul. He has little trouble shaking him off, and then it’s his turn for a backhand.

Emma watches Paul stumble to the side, raising a hand to his temple, eyes wide with shock. She can feel his vague surprise and confusion in the back of her mind. They’ve probably never hurt him before, she realises. The General is yelling at him but he’s frozen up.

_“What do you think gives you the right-”_

McNamara’s hands are still clenched. He’s still dangerous, but she doubts Paul is in a state to defend himself. So she’ll have to do it for him.

_“You insolent fucking-”_

He cuts himself off when Emma pulls Paul back and steps in front of him, gripping his arm, trying to reassure him. She glares up at the General, hunching her shoulders, and lets out a loud, guttural snarl.

Paul’s eyes somehow manage to get even wider when he hears her, shocked by the wolf-like growl coming from the small woman. It surprises her too; she takes a small step backwards, as if she’s trying to back away from the horrible sound she just made. The General hesitates for a moment, staring down at her. He looks almost… concerned.

“You really are fond of each other, aren’t you?” he mutters, almost as if he’s talking to himself. Blue quietly snarls again.

“Kelly, step away.”

Emma turns to face Schaffer, still glaring, and shakes her head. But, of course, the agents don’t care whether she wants to leave Paul. The Colonel grabs her by the front of her shirt, dragging her away from the men. She keeps a hold of Paul, but when he tries to follow her the General roughly shoves him back, battling to haul him away as Shaffer grabs her shoulders, turns her around, and kicks her hard in the back of the legs to force her onto her knees. She loses track of Paul when the Colonel knocks her over completely, pinning her head to the ground as she tries to catch her arms. She fights as hard as she can to get her off and help him but soon she feels the General’s hands grabbing her wrists and forcing them together. She can sense her friend still panicking as the man cuffs her, and when they’re done restraining her and she manages to sit up she sees him trying to free himself from the handcuffs tethering one wrist to the padlock on the shed door. She tries to resist when Schaffer gets her to her feet and tries to haul her towards the main building, but after a few moments McNamara steps in and throws her over his shoulder again. She stares straight at Paul, shaking, as he carries her out of the yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :)


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